


Kidnapped

by Baileys



Series: Kidnapped [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Story - part 1 of 3, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, focus on recovery, surviving kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 12:52:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17919140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baileys/pseuds/Baileys
Summary: Neal's taken when working undercover for Ruiz. This isn't the first time he's found himself being put through the wringer and had to suck it up and get on with life, but what about Peter? A character focused story on the impact and aftermath of trauma. Hopefully not at all clinched.   Emotional hurt/comfort for both guys and tearing apart of terrible coping mechanisms.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 1 of an intended trilogy which will eventually involve a crossover with Criminal Minds (original season 3 -6 team). This story is complete and can be enjoyed as a stand alone.

**Prologue**

Gun drawn and raised, Peter pushes through the Dutch colonial doors of a Midtown townhouse. A swarm of FBI agents follow and fill the ground floor. Jones breaks off and leads a faction up the stairs. Diana enters with a second wave through the rear, leading her followers to search the basement.

"As soon as you have eyes on Caffrey report in!" Peter orders through his mic, maintaining a controlling position in the large entryway.

A take down is usually when he feels at his strongest during a case, the most alive. It's a rush. Usually. But not today. Today all he feels is trepidation with a hint of despair. Looking up the wide, ordinate staircase, listening to repeated calls of 'clear' and 'secure' through his ear piece, Peter feels the bubble of fear which has taken up residence in his gut expanding, making his chest unbearably tight. Entering the now empty sitting room to his left, he gives it a cursory once over before coming to rest in front of the large bay window and taking a moment to absorb the delightful view of Bryant Park across the street. So many people, walking their dogs and sharing a lunch break in the low afternoon winter sun like it's any ordinary day. Completely unaware of the anxiety, fear and turmoil swirling around this house, like a twister set to wreak havoc upon the earth.

Sensing his impending loss of control Peter focuses on his breathing. Quiet deep breaths, in and out, pushing down the anxiety just like El told him to.

"Come on Neal, where the hell are you?" He blows out his grumble in one shaky breath, holstering his weapon.

"We'll find him boss." Diana appears like magic at his side.

Peter doesn't even blink. Instead he slowly turns his back on the serene scene outside and avoiding her gaze stares down at the ratty, stained woven rug sat languishing between two little settees that Neal would have blanched at having to be near, let alone sit on.

"You know I always wondered how he coped in prison." He says absently, walking away.

Diana, taking in the dusty seating and stained upholstery, murmurs her agreement. "Maybe he was numb to it all." She offers as an olive branch, well aware anything she said right now wouldn't make a damn bit of difference, but needing to try all the same.

"Yeah. Maybe."

"When we find him, you can ask him." She glares Peter down, fire in her eyes threatening to set him alight, "that is if you're up to catching him again, or has Neal Caffrey finally beaten the great Agent Burke?"

Peter loses a little of his frown, lips curling on one side, amused by the challenge as well as the intent behind it. "Diana get-"

Before Diana can get anything their ear pieces spring to life with a static filled crackle, Jones' voice travelling through loud and clear.

" _Agent Burke, we need you on the top floor_." A pause and some rustling filter through the ear wig after Peter asks what they have. " _It's Caffrey related_."

Leaving the twin settees to their sorry fate, he arrives on the landing seconds later, panting and out of breath, Diana on his heels.

"Where?" Peter demands of the rookie agent staring at him with fresh, undaunted eyes.

The few other agents milling around part to reveal an open door and another unlit staircase behind it. Peter gets the message and climbs. It goes straight for ten steps before curling around on the last three. Coming out the darkness he finds himself in a musty attic room, with slanted walls and only one window letting in a spray of dusty natural light. Jones is crouched, gloves on, head bent over something lying prone in the middle of the floor. Legs like jelly, losing strength with each step Peter makes it close enough to see over his shoulder. Close enough to see the familiar black hat, dirtier than the last time he'd seen it on its owner, a pair of black tailored pants, suit jacket and a favoured purple tie, all folded neatly on the ground. Black GPS tracking anklet resting on top like a cherry.

Peter drops, knees going out from under him. Diana and Jones both reach out, a hand under each arm.

"Peter-"

"Agent Burke," one of the rookies appear, poking his head over the last step. "There's a call for you."

"Take a message." Peter doesn't tear his gaze from the pile on the floor.

The kid who was about Caffrey's age hesitates, then shuffles forward, "I- I really think you should take this sir." He says timidly yet shows gumption by thrusting the cell in front of Peter's face. "Sir, I'm sorry, but it's the morgue." One deep breath- "They've found a body."


	2. Chapter 2

Peter did not want to do this.

Sitting in this cold basement room, squeezed onto a bench no bigger than Satchmo's doggie bed, Peter realises he  _can't_  do this. He wasn't a coward, had faced down some nasty people in some nasty situations in his time, but he was damn proud that despite over a decade as an agent he hadn't yet had to identify the body of a friend.

Trust Caffrey to ruin that.

Neal had never met a rule he didn't want to break, Peter should have seen this coming from the start. He says one thing, Neal does another. He tells Neal to stay put, Neal wanders away. It was classic Caffrey and he  _did_  see it coming. He told Hughes no way should they lend Neal to Violent Crimes –  _to Ruiz_  - for the week. Neal wasn't the only young, good-looking brunette in the bureau, any number of trained and experienced agents could have fit the bill for this op. But just like Kimberly Rice and Senator Wilson, there was something about Neal Agent Ruiz needed, and like those times Peter knew it was something he wasn't going to be privy to until it was too late. Peter doesn't like Neal being lent to other divisions because they don't know how to handle him, and now look. He's been proven right once again. He may not be shouting  _I told you so_ from the mezzanine for all to hear, but he was kicking himself for not taking action when it would have counted, for failing in the only thing that mattered. He didn't keep his promise. He didn't keep Neal safe.

Elizabeth grips his hand and Peter tears his gaze away from the double plastic doors separating them from the truth beyond. He was wrong. He is a coward. His best friend, his partner, his  _boy_. That insufferable yet oddly endearing kid who sported one of the brightest smiles he's ever seen was on the other side of those cold metal doors and Peter Burke needed his wife by his side to face the reality he might never see that childish menace again. Peter had dedicated a lifetime to catching Neal Caffrey. Now he needed someone to catch him.

"Mr and Mrs Burke." The mortician appears and invites them inside.

Standing to the head of the cold mental slab the size looks right from the shape of the body bag. Peter sucks in a breath, El squeezes his hand again and the coroner pulls back the zip.

El tenses, body ridged against his. Peter shuts both eyes. Tears leaking out despite his best efforts.

"It's not him."

Unfazed by his reaction the mortician asks, "are you sure?"

Fist pressed to his mouth all Peter manages is a supine shake as El's arms wrap around his waist. "That's not Neal."

….

"Alan DuPont."

Diana brings up the slide. A healthy smiling Alan, dark haired and blue eyed, forever twenty-two years old stares back at the grouping of White Collar agents, making everyone uncomfortable with the startling similarity Alan had to the still missing Neal Caffrey.

"Alan is our guy in the morgue, he was enrolled in school at Juilliard until two months ago when he dropped out." She continues. "According to the coroner he's been dead less than 24 hours."

"So killed around the same time Caffrey went missing." Jones muses out loud.

"As you may know DuPont was a suspect of ours, we believed he was a working part of the extortion ring Caffrey was sent to infiltrate," Ruiz takes over the narrative, earning him a searing look from Peter's team as he goes into how Alan frequented the Maxam Club in the East Village, pulling in several thousand dollars a night according to his bank balance.

"Let me guess. Maxam's one of Benedict's clubs." Peter smiles sickly, he'd snuck in part way through Ruiz' intro speech, having detoured to the bathroom after returning from his visit to the morgue.

Diana brings shots from the van up on the big screen. "One of three." She flicks through images of each one. "Carl Benedict also owns one in the meat packing district and one in Hell's Kitchen."

Peter tells Diana to back up and zoom in on the third image. "That's four blocks from the Midtown address we raided this morning." Peter stares Ruiz down, forcing him to break eye contact first. "How come we haven't made the connection to Benedict's clubs before now?"

"Look Burke our intel-"

Peter launches out of his chair, pushing onto the table with both palms. "Your intel is worth crap when you share it after it's hit the fan."

"I didn't know my case connected to Benedict until just now." Ruiz backs up, putting the table between them.

"The hell you didn't." Peter follows, prompting Jones to step between them. "The bureau's been after Benedict for years, he's got his hand in everything from extortion to money laundering to murder for hire. He doesn't sneeze without you knowing it."

"If you're so up on all that is Carl Benedict how come you didn't make the connect?" Ruiz shifts, rubbing his neck, continually glancing at the door behind him.

"Don't try to put this on me. You've been sniffing around here since Neal went missing." Peter kept his stare fixed on Ruiz. "What else haven't you told us?"

"I would like to know that myself." Hughes enters the briefing room, handing Peter a manilla folder.

The whole room was watching the exchange, only Diana was watching Peter.

"Boss?"

"Everyone, clear out." Hughes directs the group of junior agents made up of the Harvard crew and some of Ruiz' personal.

Peter was white, his face ghostly, fingers ripping through the folder as he read. "You son of a bitch." He hands the folder to Diana, confident she'd know what to do with it.

"What is it?" Jones asks, keeping himself as a barrier in front of Ruiz, preventing any move which could turn an already bad situation worse.

"It's a profile from the behavioural analysis unit in Quantico." Hughes doesn't take his eyes off Ruiz. "Answering Agent Ruiz' request from ten days ago."

"Before Neal went undercover." Peters seethes.

Jones turns on Ruiz now, done protecting him, arms crossed high over his chest.

Diana drops the file open on the desk. "You weren't just tracking an extortion ring. You're looking for a serial killer."

"My case is centred on the blackmail of several high-profile New York figures, there was a threat to life, but I didn't know about the murders of several of the escorts working the clubs until my team tried to flip one. I had no hard evidence their deaths were even connected, let alone this would lead back to Benedict." Ruiz shifts uneasily under the fixed angry stares of four very pissed off FBI Agents. "Two other guys, looking just like this DuPont kid have died in the last month, neither worked directly for Benedict, but they were last seen in one of his clubs so I followed the lead." Ruiz looks ceiling to floor, anywhere but at the angry face of Peter Burke.

"When you asked to borrow Neal, you told us it was because you didn't have anyone on your team that could infiltrate the inside without being made." Peter speaks calmly, voice low and dangerous, muscles still tensed and ready to deliver the blow he knows Ruiz firmly deserves.

"And that was true." Ruiz shrugs. "I needed young and pretty. My guys don't exactly fit that bill Burke."

"But the brief you used to request Caffrey's assist centred around coercion via prostitution. Not murder." Diana steps forward, sensing like her colleagues that one more derogatory comment and Peter would explode.

Ruiz looks to the side. "A misunderstanding."

"One you are going to clear up here and now." Hughes orders him.

"Look it was a long shot okay." Ruiz gives up the innocent act, deflated he backs up, shoving his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders. "Caffrey fit the guys type. It was an opportunity I wasn't going to miss just because Burke here can't cut the cord. End of the day the kid isn't an Agent."

Peter launches forward and it takes both Jones and Diana's hands on his arms to hold him back. "You son of a bitch!"

"What else do you know Agent?" Hughes demands, gaze split between glaring at Ruiz and showing concern for Peter.

Ruiz stumbles over his words, looking nervous for the first time. "That's everything, I swear." He looks away, "Burke come on, you want to find the kid, it's his time you're wasting."

Peter has no words, he turns his back on Ruiz and walks over to the row of windows.

"Peter." Hughes warns.

"Reece." Peter hisses through gritted teeth, an agreement not to do anything stupid.

Hughes turns back to the man trying to creep out the door. "Agent Ruiz I suggest you get your team to transfer all files related to the murders and case against Benedict to White Collar ASAP."

"You can't be serious?" Ruiz shouts, instinctively defensive over the potential loss of his case.

"Yes, I can." Hughes stares him down. "And for the record, Agent or not Caffrey is the bureau's responsibility. He gets the same level of protection we afford any one of us. Is that clear?"

Ruiz nods in defeat and hisses a forced "Yes, sir," through gritted teeth.

"You better get going before I change my mind and let Burke shoot you." Reese waits, listens to Ruiz hurried footsteps fade out the room, "Peter." He waits for his agent to turn and look him in the eye. "Find him."


	3. Chapter 3

"Can you believe that son of bitch?"

"Hon, you need to calm down." El begs.

"What I need is Ruiz' head on a stick." Peter paces his kitchen, up and down like a caged lion at the zoo, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce his jailor.

"What you need is to find Neal." She implores, feeling completely useless and for once without any words of encouragement, which were usually her speciality where her husband and Neal were concerned.

There's a quick knock at the door and with tears brimming she leaves him to answer it.

"Hey Elizabeth," Diana greets sombrely. "Peter here?"

El practical melts in relief at seeing her and Jones on the top step. "Dining room," she opens the door wide, "please tell me you have good news."

"We have news," Diana offers, walking through.

"Not sure how good it is." Jones finishes, affording her a respectful nod before following.

Elizabeth swallows and, bracing herself to be the strong one, shuts the door behind them.

"Neal?" Peter stops his pacing the second he lays eyes on the pair.

"Nothing yet," Jones hands over a manila envelope. "But Ruiz' people have shared their case files, we've got this on Benedict."

"It confirms what we suspected?" He asks, accepting it.

"What did you suspect?" Elizabeth joins them gathered around her dining room table.

"Hon," Peter breaths.

"No Peter, Neal's my friend too and I deserve to know what's happening." She stares him down, wafting her fringe out of her eyes. "I can handle it."

Her voice is less convincing than her words, but regardless Peter gives in to the inevitable and nods at Diana, signalling the go ahead to talk.

"Benedict has a psychopath on his crew."

"A psychopath with a type." Jones adds sadly, eyes falling to the envelope Peter still has gripped, unopened in his palms.

"A type?" She looks between the three of them demanding someone explain.

Peter didn't want El to worry, but the point is mute now so he takes the plunge and tries to be as delicate as possible. "Neal was working undercover on a case violent crimes division asked to borrow him for. I said no, Hughes said no, but of course bureaucratic ass kissing won out, Ruiz called in a favour."

"But Neal could have said no, surely?" Elizabeth looks for confirmation that the FBI aren't the bad guys.

It's because of times like this and people like Ruiz that Peter's not so sure anymore.

"This is Neal, does he ever listen to me?" He shrugs, brushing her off, not wanting to start thinking too hard on the motives of the organisation he works for, not right now at any rate.

Elizabeth sees she isn't going to get the validation she needs and resigned, moves on. "So, what did they want Neal to do?"

"Go undercover as an escort," Diana picks up when Peter's mouth dries up and he just can't say the words.

He sees the second understanding dawns and Elizabeth's expression moves from shock to sadness to outright contempt. "This Agent Ruiz. He knew people where dying?"

"He knew alright." Jones adds his two-cents.

Taking a deep, controlling breath Peter rips open the envelope he's still holding in a death grip and gazes into the blue eyes of not one, not two, but five different young men, all with dark brown hair, all looking to be in their early to mid-twenties.

"Ruiz was right." Peter grimaces. "No one on his team could have passed for one of these kids."

"Neal looks young enough to fit the bill." Diana locks eyes with Peter. "Sorry boss."

Peter nods. "How long?"

Jones is the one to offer an answer. "Alan here," he points to the familiar face which greeted him and Elizabeth at the morgue, "had been missing a week before being dragged from the river. Same with the others. They had no family or close friends who reported them missing, timeframe is based on when they stopped using their cell phones and bank accounts. The BAU report hypothesises he keeps them alive for about that long, then takes his next victim before disposing of the body."

"Caffrey's been missing less than 48 hours." Diana speaks up, "means there's still time."

"But time for what? Do we know what's happening to them in the meantime?" Peter can't tear his eyes away.

Diana and Jones share a look, but it's Jones who speaks. "Back page is the autopsy report. Forensics didn't find any DNA, but there's definite evidence of both physical and sexual assault."

A high-pitched intake of breath draws Peters attention from the photos of five traumatised boys in the file to his wife at his side. He reaches out and wraps an arm around her shoulders.

"Call the Harvard crew, get everyone back in, get Ruiz back in. I'm not waiting until morning. We need a location where this sick bastard's keeping Neal. I want everyone on this. No one leaves until we find him."

"Got it boss." Diana takes the file back and her and Jones make their way out the door.

Peter turns to Elizabeth, "Hon,"

"Go," she encourages, looking to where his colleagues have exited leaving the door open waiting for him to follow. "Go find him and bring Neal home." She kisses his lips, long and hard.

Elizabeth holds it together for as long as it takes Peter to grab his coat and gun, shutting the door behind him. The second she hears the tell-tale click of the latch, that's when she lets her tears fall.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sexual abusive content  
> So, this chapter comes with a little warning. I will state outright no part of this story will include rape of a main character. However, without giving too much plot away there are references to sexual misconduct against a main character. It's not graphic and I hope I've handled it well in a fictional story-telling sense, but if that's still not for you then you might want to skip this chapter.
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoy the read.

 

 

Neal comes to, a sudden wakening that results in a faster than usual heartbeat and the distinct feeling of being watched. Lying very still, blinking into the darkness, his brain kicks into survival mode and quickly takes stock. The first thing he notices is the unfamiliar smell of the room. It's pungent, but not totally unpleasant, like unscented disinfectant. Feeling around, the spongey material beneath his fingertips suggests he's on a bed of some sort. Not like his bed at June's or the one he uses at Peter's from time to time. This mattress is cold, surface slick and it sticks to his bare skin when he moves. Further exploration reveals he's also missing the majority of his clothes.

Gingerly tilting his head to the side, trying not to think too hard on why that would be just yet, Neal can make out the fuzzy shapes of city buildings through the ceiling high windows running the length of one wall, their bright lights a welcome beacon in the dim greyness surrounding him. Though he can't say for sure where he is exactly, the evidence suggests he hasn't left the city. That was good for two reasons. One, Peter should be able to find him pretty easily and two, it shouldn't take him long to get here.

Surprisingly, the fact he's woken up half naked in a stranger's bed isn't his main concern at the moment. It's actually the effort needed to think he's finding more disconcerting. Overall his mind feels pretty numb, like a dense fog has settled over him, thick and impenetrable, making holding onto any coherent thought next to impossible. Despite the feeling of being watched Neal does believe he's alone now, at least in the literal sense, and deep in the far recesses of his confused and truthfully terrified little mind, that thought brings a sense of relief. He can't remember how he got here exactly, but he knows he wasn't always here. He remembers being somewhere else, somewhere not exactly safe but familiar, somewhere he wishes he'd stayed because he doesn't know here- he doesn't like  _here_.

A sudden memory fills his mind, pushing through the fog with tremendous force, like a demon demanding to be invoked. With it comes a barrage of images, thoughts and feelings that instigate a chain reaction of panic. Neal quickly loses control as his own body rebels against him. Shaking and sweating he tries to sit up, to adopt a less vulnerable position while he wills his brain to stop working against him. He really _, really_  doesn't want to be here, and now Neal remembers  _why_.

Here is where men he thinks he should remember but doesn't removed his clothes, ripping them from his limbs, leaving him in only his t-shirt and boxers. Here is where those same men talked about him while he lay half naked and paralysed at their feet, calling him pretty and other words Neal really didn't like or want to remember. Here is where another man, this one with an oily voice and hot breath told him to ' _take it easy_ ' then proceeded to run his coarse hands over Neal's cold exposed skin before leaving him alone to contemplate his fate.  _Here_  is the only place Neal has felt truly and utterly afraid.

' _You won't feel a thing.'_

Neal rolls, gagging at the bile surging up through his throat upon recalling those words, whispered with a lover's caress over his ear. It burns, deep within his chest, but nothing comes up. The coughing creates spasms which awakens the muscles in his previously sluggish limbs and make it easier to push himself up into a sitting position. He'd known what was happening was wrong, known the crass voice belonging to the face Neal still can't recall had told him a bare faced lie, but couldn't stop it from happening. The hands didn't rush as they explored, the touch feather light and almost teasing. His attempts to get away, to remove himself where thwarted by his own body's uncooperativeness. His limbs had felt heavy and though he didn't think he'd been restrained they still dropped like dead weights the second he got not an inch off the floor.

Neal doesn't know how long he sits there, numb to the pain in his chest, frightened and alone, watching the sun rise through the expanse of glass laid before him. Daylight creeping in and slowly engulfing the room while his mind replays the memory of that man on top of him, over and over again in his head. His stomach signals a hunger he doesn't feel, which leads him to wonder if anyone is coming back for him, and whether he really wants them to or if he's better off alone. He thinks he should move, do  _something,_ before he's exposed to a fate worse than light petting, but his brain and body are operating on two different plains right now. Neal tries to lift his arms again, testing his powers and manages to wave his palm through the air. A smile of triumph starts to form until, energy spent, the hand drops suddenly and unable to guide it's decent he smacks himself in the face.

Disappointed, a wave of exhaustion flows over him and Neal's eyelids start to droop. Shoulders hunched, his head bobbing towards the floor unconsciousness is only seconds away from claiming him when the walls unexpectedly explode in a barrage of noise and light. Screams fill the air and Neal's head instantly snaps back, eyes wide and alert to the new danger surrounding him. He frantically tries to move, to hide before he's discovered, but something he hears clicks in his mind. A phrase spoken that he recognises.

And with that spark of recognition filling his heart and mind with hope, a connection is formed, compelling one thought to leave his desolate mind and escape in an expulsion of sound passed numb, chapped lips-

"Peter"

...

"FBI!" Peter's team announce their presence and break through the large heavily secured door, storming the loft.

Waiting for the warrant after Diana ran into his office sometime around 3am declaring they'd connected an account of Benedict's to an apartment – in Brooklyn of all places - was excruciating, but now, standing in the middle of said loft, one look inside made the wait all worth it.

There in plain view, sat on a mattress central to the sparsely furnished room, was Neal.

Trusting his team to continue securing the area Peter loses all sense of modesty and  _runs_. Smashing both knees on hard floor tiles when he lands Peter grabs Neal up, pressing that gel-less head of curly hair to his shoulder and squeezing him tight.

"Boss?"

"What?" Peter snaps, when Diana approaches, finger tips digging into the very warm, very much alive body in his arms.

She leans over them, own hand squeezing his shoulder. Peter briefly releases his death grip on Neal, long enough to swipe the back of his hand across his eyes.

"I'm good." He tells her, voice congested.

"What about him?" She drops, crouching at his side.

Except a lowly uttered  _Peter_ , Neal hasn't shown any reaction to his rescue and as happy as he is to have finally found him, the implication drops like a stone in Peter's stomach.

Reluctantly pulling back to get a better look, the pair of agents immediately notice the unfocused and confused quality to his gaze.

Peter squeezes his arm. "Neal, look at me please," he commands, tone steady and clear, hiding all his inner distress and turmoil.

It takes a second, but eventually Neal's dilated eyes roll to meet his and Peter releases a heavy sigh. The bright blue, no doubt part of what made him so desirable to the sick bastard they were after, is engulfed by the jet-black of his pupils. Taking his wrist in hand, Peter can feel Neal's pulse racing under his fingertips. A rapid  _thump, thump, thump_  acting in complete contrast to his outwardly relaxed presentation.

"Drugged?" Diana whispers, watching his movements.

"Definitely."

Without having to be asked she steps away and can be heard instructing medical personnel be brought up immediately. Peter doesn't take his eyes off Neal, a move that pays because within seconds of Diana leaving them alone Neal makes a lazily attempt to reinitiate their hug by hesitantly grabbing fistfuls of Peter's jacket. His expression remains lax like his grip, but Peter knows Neal and he doesn't need him to say the words to recognise he's hurting.

"You're going to be okay," Peter guides him back in, shuffling forward and letting Neal settle his hot forehead in the curve of his neck, rocks him gently. A stuttered breath of air is sharply inhaled and quickly let go again by the too slack body in his arms. To himself he whispers, "I'll make damn sure of it."

"EMT's are here." Jones appears, "they're up to date on everything, want to check him out first then they'll be taking him to NYU."

Peter doesn't get the chance to do more than nod his gratitude. The pair of medics quickly move Jones out of the way, rest their equipment on the floor and get to work. Neal behaves throughout the initial examine, his expression never changing from muted indifference as his pulse and blood pressure are measured and read out without any urgency.

"He okay?" Peter blurts, "I mean-"

"He's doing fine." The medic disposing of his glove's reports, offering a reassuring nod. "He's definitely ingested some form of muscle relaxant, which explains the subdued behaviour, but his vitals are stable."

Further conversation takes place between the pair. Arrangements for travel mostly. Peter readily agrees to escort Neal in the ambulance. He'd have insisted on it anyway, but Neal's status as a ward of the state certainly made for less arguing on the matter.

The pram had been placed on the floor and everyone was ready to move Neal onto it ready for transporting down the stairs, but the second the first guy lays hands on him and attempts to pull Neal away from Peter, Neal's eye lids snap back and a shrill cry of defiance fills the frigid air. The bigger EMT of the pair approaches but backs off when Neal's fist collides with his shins. Peter orders the two medics to stand back with such fierce protectiveness neither argue with his assessment. Making eye contact with Diana he silently instructs her to block the door. Jones aligns himself behind Peter but in that moment of hesitation to act Neal throws himself off the mattress and slides backwards on his butt across the smooth clear floor, pressing himself into the furthest corner, where the window and wall meet. Generally, Peter has no issues with heights, he could stand on the 102nd floor of the Empire State and not even blink. But seeing Neal in his current out of mind state, a pane of glass the only thing separating him from a thirty-story drop…

"Neal!" Peter wastes little time in getting close.

Crouching in front of him, cupping the too smooth cheek and feeling that stone in his stomach plummet further at the flinch he receives.

"Peter." Neal's tone is hard, almost accusing.

That's when Peter realises, they aren't out of the woods yet. No by a long shot.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**48 hours earlier**

Neal arrives at his rendezvous two minutes early and upon climbing out of his cab stands on the sidewalk in the warm afternoon summer heat studying his surroundings. The three-story townhouse, with its Dutch colonial doors and original window settings looked innocent enough. Its position facing the park adding authenticity to the wholesome family façade he's sure it's meant to convey. It's the perfect cover and probably the last place the authorities would look for what essentially amounted to a bordello. He'd been working for violent crimes, undercover for the past six nights, visiting targeted night clubs around the city and getting his face out there. Just when it looked like Ruiz was ready to pull him, after insinuating he wasn't – in his words - shaking his pretty ass hard enough and insulting his alleged parentage by Peter, last night in Maxam, one of the regular bar tenders passed him the invite he'd been waiting for.

Accomplished was how he felt at the time, imagining being able to flaunt the gilded business card in Ruiz' face next time he checked in. Right now though, faced with the reality he might actually have to follow through with his aliases claims of being a 'wild boy' he couldn't deny how nervous he truly was. Neal didn't feel like he was in danger, at least not in the traditional sense, but unlike when he was working with Peter, he had no idea if his back up would respond should things go south. The plan was to get in, establish who the main players were and get out. Simple enough, so long as nobody here expected to him to  _get to work_  so to speak, straight away. Ruiz had made it clear his feelings about Neal's deal with the FBI. He accused the White Collar agents of babying him and insisted once violent crimes was done with him he'd wish he was still behind bars. Neal refrained from commenting. He'd not exactly been thrilled to be on temporary loan again, especially after what happen with Agent Rice, but after Peter and Hughes both denied requests for his assistance, a visit by a couple of Ruiz's henchmen at June's late one evening made it clear they wouldn't be taking no for answer. So, knowing Peter wouldn't listen, and Hughes would most certainly be suspicious enough to question any circumventing of authority, Neal agreed to go over both their heads to Bancroft. He liked the man well enough, and knew just what to say to convince him he was needed on Ruiz's team. He has no idea if Peter knows it was him who went above both his and Hughes head, and is frankly in no rush to find out. One dangerous situation at time.

Bolstered by the reminder that in the end it had been his choice to join this case, his intention to prove once and for all he wasn't any run of the mill criminal, Neal squared his shoulders and crossed the street. The tracking bracelet felt heavy around his ankle, a stark reminder of who he really was and why he was here. Ruiz had refused to remove it, stating with implicit firmness that he heard what happened to the last Agent who "borrowed" him from Burke and wasn't about to set himself up for the same fate. Neal didn't bother to point out that it was Agent Rice's arrogance and lack of care that resulted in his kidnapping and her resulting suspension. One because so far Ruiz had shown him even less respect that she had, and two because despite the anklet being a dead giveaway should it be discovered, Neal felt so much safer knowing Peter knew exactly where he was. With that security in mind reducing his anxiety, Neal refocused his mind on the task at hand.

Taking his time to climb the few stairs, approaching the front door Neal flashes back to his first contact with one of the men on their suspect list and, he hopes, his reason for being here.

"Alan." The dark haired, good looking and suave young man leaning against the bar offered his hand openly the second Neal, undercover as Lance Draycott college dropout and self-labelled opportunist stepped up.

Alan's smile was wide and showed just enough teeth to convey friendliness without ruining the sincerity of the gesture. He'd obviously had plenty of practice. Neal extended his own hand and returned the smile he'd used so often himself. It didn't take long before they were chatting like old friends and Alan was telling Lance he was just the type of guy his boss was looking for.

Throughout the whole conversation it was like looking in a mirror. Alan not only dressed with a style of his own like Neal, but his leading conversation and outward confidence certainly made for an interesting experience. Neal had never met another him before and from that moment understood exactly why Ruiz had been so insistent on having  _him_  in on this operation. When he said none of his men fit the bill he wasn't kidding. Looking around, the whole club put out a GQ vibe, no one present looked to be over thirty.

"So, you're looking for new opportunity." Alan said casually, offering him a second drink.

Neal flashed him another smile and accepted the tall glass. "I am. Is it that obvious?"

"Word gets around." Alan palms his own glass off of the bar and draws Neal over to the stairs. "Jani from the Braun floated your name. Surprised I haven't seen you in here before now?"

Neal followed Alan up the stairs a step behind, feeling the vibrations of the dance music through his shoes and the metal railing he used to navigate in the darkness as they left the strobing lights of the dance floor behind them. "I've been away a while."

Jani was their inside man, a Finnish exchange student looking to strike a deal with the FBI after being caught trying to blackmail a senator with indecent images of his twenty-two-year-old daughter. The intel on the case came from that investigation, revealing Jani wasn't just some voyeuristic pervert and there was more going on than a few pictures taken during a night of consensual sex.

That night Neal left Alan sometime around 1am with a verbal agreement to meet up in Maxam again the next evening to meet 'the boss'. He'd been optimistic for a swift turn around that had him back in white Collar by the end of the week. Only Alan didn't show. Neal continued to visit the club and the others as planned, but he hasn't seen Alan since that night. Not wanting to come across as too desperate Neal made subtle enquires but no one seemed to know where he'd gone and now, as he turns the handle on the unlocked door of the unassuming house, ignoring the queasy feeling in his stomach telling something isn't right, Neal finds himself hoping it'll be Alan he's meeting on the other side.

When his head hits the wall, a result of trying to fight off the owner of an arm that had wrapped around his throat the second he stepped inside, Neal regrets ignoring that gut instinct. As he drops in a boneless heap to the floor, his last thoughts are of Peter and how disappointed he's going to be when he finds out he's screwed up yet again.


	6. Chapter 6

Diana arrived at the hospital before the ambulance and immediately requested to speak to the resident in charge. When Caffrey had freaked out, by his reaction to the two paramedics alone, she knew what they needed to do. So as soon as the situation calmed and, following some serious negotiating with Peter Neal grudgingly agreed to a trip to the hospital, filling Jones in on her plan she made a quick exit.

It was with no joy she made the call, instructing the specialist nurse to complete a forensic exam immediately and signing the consent forms herself. Despite the many times she'd threatened Caffrey with bodily harm, it was always in jest. The kind of quasi friendly cruelty she'd inflict on a younger brother if she had one. She didn't want to hurt him, but there was no way she was going to force Peter into signing the forms. And while Neal was a ward of the state in Peter's custody, that's exactly what he'd be obligated to do. If Neal found out it was Peter's choice to put him through the hours long invasive procedure there was a risk the fragile friendship they've been maintaining these past few years would be irreparably broken. Neal needed Peter more than he needed her right now and she could live with the consequences just fine. At the end of the day, her allegiance lay with Peter and she'd do anything to protect him.

"This isn't standard procedure." The nurse spoke as Diana added her signature to the required forms. "There's time to wait for the victim to give consent."

"Neal Caffrey is a convicted felon serving his sentence in the custody of the FBI. The choice isn't his to make." Diana had stated, glaring the woman down.

Sitting in chairs, reviewing her conduct even Diana can't pretend any longer that she's not affected by her decision. To stop the maelstrom of emotion bubbling inside from taking hold she reconciles with herself that the drugs still coursing through Caffrey's system will help take the sting away, making the whole thing seem more like a dream than reality. With any luck he'll sleep through the whole thing and won't have a clue.

"Any news?" Jones appears suddenly, sliding into the empty chair on her left.

Diana blinks, clears her self-indulgent thoughts and focuses on his face. "Peter's still talking with the doctor, but they completed the initial exam."

"And?"

"No rape." She lets that bit of good news settle before giving the rest. "But they can't rule out assault. Delaney in forensics is coming in to collect the evidence herself. She'll be discrete."

"That's good." Jones nods, taking it all in. "But we have a problem." His tone is calm and words proficient as he explains that the intel received through a member of Ruiz' team is that Benedict is aware they've raided his loft, which means their suspect – assuming it isn't Benedict himself – is also aware. "Based on what we know about this guy, I'm betting he isn't going to take too kindly to losing what he already considered his."

"What does the profile say?"

"That he'll try to reclaim his first choice of victim, and failing that he'll attempt to replace him as soon as possible." Jones takes a breath. "Add to that Benedict is certainly not going to sit around knowing there's a witness who could bring him down…"

"So, either way we've got to find this piece of shit soon or someone's going to die."

"Pretty much," Jones doesn't lose his cool professionalism. "I've already arranged for an additional agent to cover Caffrey while he's here, but-"

"But Benedict has contacts." Diana sighs. "We need to set a trap." The weight of another hefty decision laying on her shoulders was unwelcome but at least gave her something to do. "We leak Caffrey's location. Hopefully our suspect will make a mistake."

"Sounds good,"

"But?" She could hear the hesitation in his voice.

"You know Peter will never agree to use Caffrey as bait."

"Let me handle that…"

Diana presents Peter with her idea the second he steps through the double doors marked authorised personnel only.

"Boss," she calls him over. "You got yourself a hall pass?"

"He's making noise." Peter pushes back his jacket, hands to hips. "If we don't get out of here soon, _I_  might strangle him."

It was as good a segue as any.

Diana explains her plan in detail. A plan Peter eventually agrees to and surprisingly doesn't question. Frankly she doubts he  _could_ think straight if he tried right now, judging by his visible exhaustion and the stress showing clear as day on his face, but based on his easy assurance that  _she's got this_ , Diana presumes he's smart enough to know he's too close to make a logical decision. She just hopes the lack of questioning doesn't have anything to do with a potentially fragile mental state, otherwise they were all in big trouble.

.

"Hey," Jones appears and joins the pair, a tray of coffee's in hand. "How's he doing?"

"He's still not thinking straight, doesn't remember how he got here." Peter answers, reaching out and taking one of the proffered cups to hide the inappropriate smile breaking out on his face. "He thinks we thought he ran."

Jones raises his eyes to study the ceiling. "Not an unreasonable assumption. Considering the circumstances."

"Yeah." Peter nods, moving his gaze between the two of them before settling on a spot on the wall over Diana's shoulder. "Look I need to call El, let her know what's happening."

Jones sees the conflict in his eyes and rightly predicts what Peter's not asking. "I'll call her, and then the office, get an update."

"Good. Thanks Jones." He's already backing away towards the doors. To Diana's he says, "I'll get Neal ready. Let me know when we need to move, sooner the better. This asshole's not going to sit on his hands while there's a witness that can I.D him."

"We got it boss." Diana waves him off.

Peter's too focused on returning to Neal to fully express his gratitude for their efficiency. A feeling deep in his gut, uncomfortable and urgent is stirring and refusing to be settled. He wants to believe it's simply nerves due to leaving Neal alone for the first time so soon after finding him, but being separated just doesn't feel as safe as it should. Getting back to Neal is the only way to take the pain -  _and it is pain he's feeling right now_  - away.

But as soon as those green curtains are in sight, Peter doesn't have to pull them back to know that he's returning to an empty bed.

"Damnit Neal," Peter curses under his breath, staring at a bare mattress, sheets and hospital gown folded neatly on top.

Taking a few deep breaths, he steels himself and dashes out into the main corridor. Spying Agent Harrison, one of Ruiz's men, hovering down the hall, he assumes he's the guard detail Jones had told him about and marches straight up to him.

"Agent Burke." Harrison greets, tone friendly and relaxed.

"Where's Neal?" Peter barks, his limited patience extending way past the kid and his ability to create trouble when none can freely find him.

Harrison looks takeback by the tone, but quickly catches on that now is not the time for generalities or chit chat.

"He's in the bathroom." Harrison nods at the door he's facing.

Face like thunder Peter spins on his heels and throws open the door with a bang.

"Neal!"

"Peter?" Comes a light-hearted and confused response, quickly followed by the flushing a cistern. "Everything okay?" He asks stepping out of the last cubical and heading towards the sink.

If Peter hadn't been seeing red, so worked up at having his instruction ignored, he'd have noticed the stark redness to the kid's eyes and taken in the stench of vomit in the air.

"No, everything is not okay." Peter spits. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Neal stares at him, bent slightly over the sink, hands doused in water and soap.

"I thought I was using the bathroom." He shoots back, giving Peter an incredulous look like he thought he'd lost his mind.

"I told you to stay put!" Peter screams at him, cheeks burning fire. "I ordered you to stay where I left you!"

"But Peter?" Neal's eyes widen, begging to understand exactly what he's done wrong.

"Don't  _But_   _Peter_  me." He bites, stepping forward and snatching the kid's arm before he can think twice about it.

If he saw the flash of fear or noticed Neal's quick scramble backwards to get away Peter doesn't let his mind process it. Instead he proceeds to drag him out, back down the corridor past Harrison and all but throws him onto the bed, pulling the flimsy plastic curtain all the way around them like a shield.

Hours later, during the silent car ride home, Neal sulking, safe and secure in his back seat, Peter reflects on his own behaviour. He over reacted and he knows it. Sure, before leaving Neal to check in with Diana he told him in no uncertain terms to stay put, but did he really mean forgoing all basic needs? Not even at his most stubborn and controlling would he expect that. On good days Peter had the patience of a saint with Caffrey, but today wasn't a good day – not by a long shot - and with Neal behaving like a brat every time someone tried to help him, the five-minute break into the waiting room did nothing to douse Peter's ever-growing irritation with him. That being said, no matter how snappy or obstinate Neal was being, Peter couldn't help but feel he had a right to be.

So before turning off the FDR onto Brooklynn Bridge he decides it's time to swallow his pride.

"Neal," he waits patiently, until the dark-hair lifts ever so slightly in what Peter believes is reluctant compliance. "I'm sorry."


	7. Chapter 7

"Alright, enough." Peter tells a sulking Neal, and holds out his hand. "let's go."

He's standing on the sidewalk, freezing his ass off by the open car door, waiting for Neal to swallow his pride and accept a little help. Glancing pointedly at his watch, by his estimation they've engaged in this battle of wills for coming up on three minutes now. He's cold, tired and quickly running out of what little patience he started the day with.

" _Neal_ " he barks for what feels like the millionth time, tone inflicted with a by-now familiar gentle fierceness Peter has perfected just for him.

Sliding his gaze back over to the focus of his irritation, he gets no eye contact, no smile, no sarcastic rebuke - no  _nothing_. Facing forward Neal stays seated in the rear of the car where he sullenly placed himself in his tantrum over what happened back at the hospital.

"Look, I'm sorry." He repeats. And he will again no doubt. Over and over and over as many times as Neal needs to hear it. "You  _know_  me. I don't apologise easily." He doesn't. Hates admitting he's wrong. "I was scared and I jumped to the wrong conclusion." Peter drops to a crouch, he'd been hoping to make it inside before having this conversation. "Forgive me?"

It takes a second, but that confession gets a reaction, a slight twitch of his eye which at a push could be considered a look in his direction. It's a start.

"Come on." Peter gives up waiting and makes the first move.

Tired of hanging out in the cold, he uses the still offered hand to grab hold of Neal's lax one resting in his lap and tugs. Thankfully his good intention doesn't back fire. Neal flows with the movement, graceful even in his current bedraggled state, and glides out of the car, only wobbling slightly when required to balance on his own two feet. Feeling encouraged Peter makes another unorthodox move and presses his own body as close to Neal's side as possible, gripping the narrow shoulders he directs their combined clumsy movements towards the house.

"Just a few more steps." He forces gentle encouragement into his tone as they navigate the steps. "Steady." He adds when Neal stumbles, nearly faceplanting his front door.

Neal doesn't say a damn word, but the clenched fists hanging ridged at his sides tell Peter not to make an issue out of it. He ignores his own frustration for once and does whatever he must to get them inside with the least amount of fuss.

"Doing good." He congratulates both Neal and himself when they cross the threshold, releasing a relieved sigh as soon as he can shut and lock the door behind them.

When Peter turns back Neal is still standing where he left him by the stairs. Deciding to stick with what works, he spins him around so the younger man's back is to his front and slides the borrowed FBI parka jacket right off him, chucking it lazily over the banister. He considers shimmying them upstairs for a shower and change of clothes, but doesn't relish the idea of a return trip to the emergency room all because Neal slipped in the tub. Deciding food and rest are much more important he heads for the sofa instead.

Thinking of food ignites Peter's senses, and the delicious aroma of roasted tomatoes and slow melting cheese wafting through the living room finally registers with him.

He sniffs the air appreciatively, "pizza for dinner," he announces with a smile.

Still nothing. Not a raised brow or even a blink, something that could have given a hint of what Neal was thinking, just the same dead eyed stare looking straight through him.

"Okay then," he sighs, resolved to carrying on this one-sided conversation. "But I happen to know plain cheese and tomato is one of your  _real_ favourites, not that fancy crap you pretend to enjoy, so don't even try and deny it." And with that declaration, manhandling Neal for the third time, Peter drops him onto the couch cushions.

El knows Neal's real favourite foods too of course, which is likely why his house smells like a pizzeria right now. Speaking of El –

"Hon?" He calls questioningly, realising he's yet to set eyes on his wife. "El, we're home…" He repeats, stepping away to go find her. Behind him Neal tries to stand and follow, but Peter quickly turns back, "nu uh." He pushes him back down. "I'm just going to find out when dinner's ready." Peter pats his head like Satchmo and says "you stay," only just stopping himself short of adding the automatic 'good boy' and quickly walks away.

Entering the kitchen, he finds El bent over the stove, lifting a loaded Pizza tray from the oven. Standing on the threshold so he's still able to see Neal out the corner of his eye, Peter clears his throat and draws her towards him.

"He looks awful." She says, poking her head out and looking around his shoulder. "You sure he shouldn't be in hospital?"

Peter steals her in a hug, because right now he really needs one. "Hospital wouldn't keep him and all the holding cells were fully booked for the night."

"Peter," she mock chastises and thwacks him on the arm, her laughter contrasting starkly with the tears in her eyes, "seriously. Is he okay?"

"Just tired, I think." He drops the teasing. "The drugs he was given did a number on him." Peter swallows back the lump suddenly lodged in his throat. "Everyone agreed he'd recover quicker if he was somewhere familiar."

"And what about why he was given the drugs in the first place?" Her eyes shine brightly.

Peter flashes back on the dead Neal lookalikes, then fast forwards to the real Neal -  _his Neal_  - helpless and alone in that empty loft, and takes a sudden shuddering breath. "They did a full work up." He blinks back his own tears, looking El dead in the eye. "Nobody touched him. We got there in time."


	8. Chapter 8

_We got there in time._

Peter tells himself later that evening while sitting at his dining room table. He's reading through his team's field reports, the focus of which is currently slumped on his sofa next to his wife, watching TV. Luckily for him their attention is fully engrossed in whatever HBO movie is playing, so neither has caught on to the sly little glances he's been throwing their way. El had tried to force him to relax with them, to 'switch off' as she put it, but unlike Neal in his post drug induce daze, Peter couldn't find the energy needed to rest. He just couldn't stop his mind replaying the events of the day over and over and over again. Still can't, though perhaps the reports aren't exactly helping with that. Determine to get them all signed off tonight so he can try and put the events of the last few days behind them, he opens the next folder – and freezes.

_We got there in time._

Chest heaving, so heavily it's obvious beneath the dress shirt he's still wearing, Peter closes his eyes and whispers the words to himself a few more times. Feeling his heart rate slow down to something approaching normal he risks peaking down at the papers spread before him, at the heading which caused the reaction in the first place...

 _Sexual assault victim forensic exam_ rests in big bold black typeface at the top of the page, Neal's name and date of birth are written underneath. Peter skims over the patient identifying details and medical jargon, zeroing in on the doctor's analysis and conclusion.

' _Aggrieved shows signs of dehydration and ligature marks around the wrists and ankles.'_

\- Neal was tied up.

' _The aggrieved has bruising of the upper arms and thighs, abrasions to the buttocks and a protruding mound to the base of the skull. All sustained at least 36 hours prior to exam based on swelling and discolouration.'_

 _-_ Neal was beaten.

' _There are no visible marks, cuts or abrasions to inner thighs, genitalia or anus. Swab was negative for semen.'_

– Neal wasn't raped.

_We got there in time._

Peter shakily sucks in a breath, but air is suddenly absent. He holds what little he took in, feels it like a solid thing in his throat. Unable to move, to think, to use it for the purpose intended. Seeing stars Peter's fingers curl and crumple pages in tightly clenched fists, finger nails digging into tough skin.

"Hon!"

Blockage dislodged, a gust escapes his lips, warm and wet and choking the life out of him, but at least he can breathe again.

"Peter?"

Peter blinks and finds Elizabeth standing in front of him, eyes wide and worried and full of tears yet to be shed. Covering and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with his thumbs, he stands up heading for the kitchen, leaving the table and his reports behind.

Palms spread out on the worktop, Peter hangs his head below his shoulders and focuses on getting his shit together. He can hear El still in the other room, telling Neal everything's fine and to keep watching the movie. Her words are meant to be reassuring, but he can hear the tension there, so he's pretty sure Neal will too.

"Sorry, hon. I was miles away." He tells her, forcing a lightness to his tone, when she enters the kitchen behind him.

"Hon, what's wrong?" She doesn't even try to hide her anxiety from him like she just did Neal.

Peter takes one final calming deep breath and turns to face her.

"Nothing." He breathes heavily through the lie, then offering a strained smile asks, "You heading up?"

El stares at him, blue eyes full of worry, and now annoyance, try to penetrate that part of him where all his secret emotions are hidden. Peter stares back and begs her -  _not now_. Later. Later, when the bad guys are caught and the case closed. Later when Neal isn't mute, when he's smiling and they can all join him in pretending this nightmare never happened.

"After I let Satch out," she agrees, words soft and hesitant. Hearing his name, the dog dutifully moves from under the dining table where he'd been hiding and sits at the back door, "I'll lock up and meet you upstairs." Her gaze moves from the dog to the living room, indicating they are not done by any means and his reprieve is unlikely to be as long as he'd desire.

Peter nods, grateful as always for her patience and tells her in one shaky breath, "thank you," before pushing off from the work surface and heading into the living room.

Lumbering over to the sofa, Peter holds out his hand to show Neal his intention, "bedtime" he orders, following through by forcibly pulling him up.

They ascend the staircase in silence and Neal lets Peter guide him into the bathroom.

"You planning on talking anytime soon?"

Crossing the threshold under his own steam Neal shuts the bathroom door behind him without looking back.

"Guess not." Peter whispers, dropping his forehead to the solid wood that's just closed in his face.

"Hon?" El appears behind him, frowning.

Peter turns tired eyes on her and chuckles. "It's not what it looks like."

"Really?" She laughs, offering out her hand. "Come on, give him some space. You're smothering him."

Peter slips his fingers between hers and he lets her drag him into their bedroom. "He wanted to be smothered when we first found him." He's whining and he knows it. "He went nuts when the paramedics tried to take him from me."

"And now he's barely saying two words to anyone." El summarises. "Hon, he's been through a lot."

"I know, I know." Peter finally pulls yesterday's shirt off, exchanging it for an old t-shirt grabbed hurriedly out of the top draw. "I don't want him clingy."

"Don't you?" El eyes him sceptically.

"No," Peter shakes his head at her. "I want things to be normal, I want to go back to work and be worrying about what boneheaded stunt Neal's going to pull next, not who might walk through the door and try and take him from me, I want him safe." He deflates, falling to sit on the bed and holding his head in his hands. "I  _need_  him safe El."

"I'm safe."

The small voice interrupting their supposedly private conversation is almost unrecognisable. Looking up and sure enough, stood leaning shyly in the doorway, almost trying to blend in and become part of the frame is Neal. Peter stares at him with wide wet eyes, takes in the sight of a living breathing Neal Caffrey, redressed in matching night shirt and pants, and tries to erase the image of those morgue pictures which keep overlapping reality in his mind.

"I know you are." He breathes finally and gets up, "Come on," he goes to take hold of Neal once again, this time with the intent of guiding him down the hall to his bed, but Neal digs in his heels, a fight in his eyes despite the exhaustion on his face. "Neal it's late."

"Neal honey, do you need something to help you sleep?" El asks kindly and receives a subdued nod in return.

She's about to offer him a warm drink of milk, but Peter's blunt " _What?_ " sends him stumbling backwards and retreating through the door of the second bedroom at the end of the hall.

El just gives him a disapproving look and points in the direction Neal just ran.

"It's going to be a long night." He says slipping out the door to follow.

 


	9. Chapter 9

_So before turning off the FDR onto Brooklynn Bridge he decides it's time to swallow his pride._

_"Neal," he waits patiently, until the dark-hair lifts ever so slightly in what Peter believes is reluctant compliance. "I'm sorry."_

* * *

_He's sorry?_

Neal allows an audible huff to escape but nothing more. Instead he turns his gaze to watch the sky scrapers whizz by as they make their way out of Manhattan.

"When I got back and you weren't there, I mean I understand, I do, but I told you to stay put and…" Peter continues regardless, driving in his usual way, concentration everywhere except on the road.

More words are said, but Neal doesn't listen. He's in no mood to hear excuses and justifications. Being dragged out of the men's room by Peter, in full view of  _everyone,_ isn't the worst thing that's happened to him today, but it's the one he's going to hold onto. His mind feels… absent… like he's floating somewhere on the outside, watching himself from a distance and his irritation at Peter's completely irrational behaviour is all that's keeping him tethered to the earth. He knows he's been in the hospital for the better part of the day and he remembers why – sort of – but when he tries to remember specifics, everything is …  _fuzzy_.

"What did they give me?" Neal says suddenly, sometime later over the Brooklynn Bridge, his soft voice cutting over the car radio and Pink Floyd's repeated attempts to call him out as a fellow lost soul in the world.

"Huh?" Is Peter's less than eloquent response, looking startled and failing to hid the fact as he captures Neal in his rear-view mirror. "You mean the doctors?"

"I mean-" Neal pauses, frowns, the thought floats around his mind but he can't quite grab hold, as soon as he thinks he has it, it's gone again. "What did they give me?" He repeats, an edge to his words he fails to conceal.

Peter stares at him, only his eyes visible in the little mirror which is conspicuously pointed directly at him. Floyd continues to play softly in the background, now reaching the realisation that the wall he's erected around his life is too high to climb. Neal tries not to apply that sentiment to his own life.

"You'll feel better after a good night's sleep." Peter declares eventually, after some hemming and hawing about blood tests and results not back yet.

"I don't… feel right." Neal breathes steadily, finding he has to concentrate on every word. But then, "I'm tired" slips out, and for once Peter keeps his eyes fixed on the road and doesn't comment.

In fact Neal doesn't say or hear Peter say another word after that, not until –

"Alright, enough!"

The words, terse and angry, they travel through his mind, tickling a memory. Neal considers if he should respond…

" _Neal_!"

His name. Said with a familiar inflection of frustration.

"Look, I'm sorry. You  _know_  me. I don't apologise easily." In his peripheral vision Neal sees the shadow that he assumes is Peter move, "I was scared and I jumped to the wrong conclusion." No longer looming over him, he's crouched at his side, hand held out towards him - "Forgive me?"

That snaps something inside Neal. The voice is gentle and not at all like the one which came before. It breaks through the comfortable numbness he's been indulging in, enough to see beyond the open car door and recognise the street on which they've parked.

"Come on." The voice has grown hands that grab hold of his, they don't wait for him to act or adjust to the fact Peter has brought him to  _his home,_ they simply pull him out of the car and drag him towards the house.

Neal doesn't have the energy to fight it and anyway what's the point? He's rubbish at fighting… running away is his forte, but he can't right now. Running away also requires energy… and a plan... a plan is the most important part. Without a plan he's no better than a moody teenage, kicking off at the inherent unfairness of life. A plan is what makes running an art, something he can be proud of when he's gotten away clean. So, with that settled, letting Peter take him wherever he wants him to go for now, Neal drifts into a state of uncaringness. His body going through the motions while his mind retreats back into a comfortable state of knowing nothing.

Awareness comes slowly back some indeterminable time later. The blinds are drawn, the living room lowly lit and Elizabeth is sitting next to him on the couch, the remains of a mostly-eaten cheese pizza lying discarded on the plate between them. His immediate attention is commanded by the brightness of the television, but then a noise, something unfamiliar and not common draws his focus away from the lives of Big and Little Edie and their many cats over to the dining room, where seated at the table was Peter, hunched over, seemingly finding it very hard to breath. Neal looks down at the scene as he has done since leaving the hospital, from above, like his body is an empty vessel and he can no longer have an impact on the world around him.

"Hon!" El calls when Peter starts to resemble a drowning man, only Peter isn't drowning and there's no water in sight. "Peter?"

It's over as fast as it started. Peter chokes, takes a deep breath and leaves the room. Neal just watches. El's gaze meets his. She tells him everything's fine, offering a watery smile that wouldn't fool a fool and follows her husband into the kitchen. He can hear them whispering, not the words but the sounds. They clearly don't want him to know what's being said, so Neal stays seated. He waits and waits until –

Peter appears first, heading straight for him. Fear spikes in his chest but nothing's visible on the outside, he makes sure of it this time.

"Bedtime" Peter pulls him up, making it clear this is a no choice scenario.

Although he's more aware than he has been all day, Neal chooses to continue ignoring life around him and allows Peter to take away his autonomy.

"You planning on talking anytime soon?" Neal hears as they reach the bathroom, but doesn't respond, because he really doesn't know the answer.

Shutting the bathroom door behind him without looking back it's a quick change into the blue t-shirt and cotton sleep pants he finds folded over the towel rail, the ones he recognises as his. He doesn't bother with anything else and quickly leaves, opening the door only to experience surprise at finding the hallway empty. That surprise quickly transforms, fear spiking suddenly, a sharp pain straight through the centre of his chest. It's the first real emotion to cut through the numb indifference he's experienced since leaving the hospital. He didn't need Peter in the bathroom and yeah, he guesses he can go to bed by himself, but looking around the darkened hallway panic sets in. He doesn't know who maybe hiding in the shadows. Neal eyes the guest bedroom door, open just a crack revealing nothing but more darkness beyond. His gaze quickly travels the length of the corridor, drawn to the only source of light…

"I  _need_  him safe El." Peter's words hit his ears the second he reaches the threshold of their bedroom.

Neal speaks the thought as it enters his mind, "I'm safe."

Their eyes meet and all of a sudden Neal sees what's been before him the entire time. What's been there since day one, before and after all of his heists and shenanigans. Neal hadn't realised, hadn't considered the impact his silence would have on the one man who's invested so much of his own time and energy into not maintaining his own wellbeing, but in keeping him, the incomparable Neal Caffrey, safe. Irritation and annoyance from Peter is normal, but seeing Peter's wet eyes, hearing the desperation in his voice as he lays his fears out to woman he loves -

"I know you are." Peter breathes finally and gets up, "Come on-"

Neal sees him coming, knows despite all hope and a touch of disbelief, he plans to take him back into the dark.

_Peter?_

"Neal it's late."

Thoughts of being alone in that room. In the dark. He can't. He won't. He shouldn't. It's  _not_ safe.

"Neal honey, do you need something to help you sleep?"

Neal looks hopelessly at Elizabeth.  _Yes._  Yes, he does. He needs to not be alone in the dark. Neal's about to say just that, because despite the fear he still feels slightly numb, like nothing he says will really matter-

" _What?_ "

Anger, irritation... normalcy. Neal slams his mouth shut and stumbles backwards, retreating until he reaches his room at the end of the hall. Bile rises quickly, burning his throat before he can even think about shutting the door. He can't stay here. Not even bothering to flick on the light which is well within his reach, Neal quickly leaves and ducks into the bathroom again. He's still alone but there's light at least-

A knock on the door interrupts his thoughts-

"Neal," a pause. "Look, I'm sorry I snapped at you. Really, if there's anything we can do to help, just ask ok?"

Standing in the harsh white light, no longer numb, no longer calm, Neal considers a response. He's confused and frightened and completely out of his depth. Opening his mouth Neal thinks he's going to tell Peter all of this, but "Yeah okay, I'll… let you know" slips out. "I'm just going to have a shower and go to bed." To make it not a lie he flicks on the shower and stripping his recently clad nightwear sits under the spray waiting for Peter to leave.

Whatever Neal had been thinking, whatever state of peacefulness he'd found by arriving at the Burke's it's gone now. All that's left is facing the darkness alone and hoping he can survive until morning.

* * *

A/N:

References:

The song on the radio is Pink Floyds 'Hey You'

The film El makes Neal watch is 'Grey Gardens.'


	10. Chapter 10

 

The next time Neal's consciously aware of anything, he's lying flat on his back, staring up at a very low white ceiling. Turning his head to the side, through slightly blurry vision he sees metal railings blocking his view on both sides. Looking back to the ceiling, taking deep even breaths to try and centre himself, an insistent buzzing fills his ears. Recognising it as the sound of an engine being pushed to its limit's, he wants to ask if Peter's driving, but quickly deduces the absence of car horns blaring negates that.

Twisting sideways to sit up he's instantly cut short in the movement. He tries to move the other way and finds himself similarly restrained. "Peter?" He tests uncertainly, frantically swallowing down on his fast-rising panic.

A warm, solid hand grips his shoulder and Peter's face slides into view, affording Neal a direct look up his nostrils. "Right here kid."

Kid.  _Shit_.

Peter never calls him kid to his face. It emphasises the power imbalance between them and despite all the cow boys up and stop complaining's, Peter gets that the anklet and their unorthodox arrangement is emasculating enough, so tries to lessen the impact wherever he can. Neal's unattainable goal in life may be to earn Peter's trust, but what he settles for is Peter seeing him as an equal. Calling him kid is like eating a Ma Po Sichuan drowned in yogurt. It takes away everything that makes him the inimitable Neal Caffrey.

"Why am I handcuffed?" He asks pleasantly enough, ignoring the 'kid' moniker entirely.

Peter looks away, a silent glare being sent somewhere to his left.

"They're not handcuffs, they're soft restraints."

The hand moves from his shoulder down to his closest wrist, Peter's fingers and thumb encircling the joint with ease.

"Okay," Neal blinks, shifts his head to the side and beckons him closer with his chin. "Why am I restrained?"

He keeps his voice low and calm, outwardly to anyone watching he should seem completely unfazed by the situation, but Peter wasn't anyone, and Neal knows he calls him kid all the time behind his back.

"Neal," Peter draws out his name in that tense way he has of communicating his annoyance without actually sounding mad.

"Peter," Neal mimics, eyes focused and challenging.

"We're here." A disembodied voice announces.

His ride comes to a sudden stop and flurry of activity results in Peter being pushed out of the way, and more distressingly, outside his field of vision. Forgetting about the restraints Neal attempts to sit up again, but only gets a couple of inches before twanging back to the mattress like a bungee cord. Resigned to enduring the journey he desperately tries to remember how he went from catching a cab outside of June's to meet with his contact on the Violent Crimes case to waking up lying down and restrained on a gurney. Whatever  _was_ wrong, he feels perfectly okay now and thinks he should just go home.

Home.

Yes.

_Good plan._

Neal rises again, or tries to, once again he'd forgotten about the handcuffs – restraints _– whatever!_  Tugging gets him nowhere, whoever put them on knew to make them tight. He keeps tugging anyway, the message not getting from his brain to his hands that the action is completely useless. Unfortunately, another message doesn't get through – the one telling him not to panic. He's wheeled further away from where he last saw Peter, down a very unappealing dank grey corridor, into an equally unappealing windowless room with no way out in sight.

Breathing already laboured it picks up tenfold when a needle wielding nurse comes into view. Somebody he doesn't see coming touches his shoulder and a scream tears from his throat. His legs, which somehow until now he hadn't realised weren't tied down, kick out and connect with something soft and fleshy. There's a low groan followed by a crash and if he could think straight that might have brought a smile to his face, but as it is his focus is on getting away from these maniacs, finding Peter and getting the hell out of here.

Speaking of which… "PETER!" He screams for all he's worth, the sound loud and shrill.

The threats being levelled his way don't deter him from his task, he's still no closer to being free so continues to alternately insult his captors and cry out for Peter, hoping his friend will find him. A distance voice inside his head is asking,  _what the hell are you doing?_ But for all the good it does. Neal can't stop running his mouth – and not in his usual full of himself way – terror has taken over, the kind he feels just like anyone else, but always pushes firmly back down, always in control, never out.

"Neal! Neal! I'm here."

Somewhere deep down in the rabbit hole that is his mind Neal recognises that stressed out voice and freezes.

Panting heavily, he hesitantly calls out into the darkness he hadn't registered as being there before, " _Peter?_ "

Cold hands take possession of his wrists, holding him still. "Yeah Neal, it's me. You're alright, you hear me? You're safe."

The voice is soft, almost gentle, nothing like the friend he knows. The one who curses each time he barks his name. "I want Peter." He tells the too dark, too quiet room, not trusting these people who were obviously playing tricks on him.

"Neal." The voice drawls, a hint of annoyance sneaking through.

If it really is Peter, he sounds tired. "You sound tired."

"I am." Not Peter chuckles, the kind of sound that isn't at all amused or happy. "I imagine so are you."

"No, I'm good." Neal answers warily in between quick hitching breaths, still not entirely sure what's happening or where everyone has gone, or why it's so dark. "why is it dark?"

He hadn't meant to actually  _ask;_ the words just sort of… slipped out.

"It's not, your eyes are closed."

And as if released from a magic spell, Neal snaps both lids open and is greeted to a sidelong view… of Peter Burke's living room.

"How…?" He all but chokes, succumbing to a distressed sob upon discovering the dank grey walls from – what he suddenly realises as – his dream, have melted away, replaced by warm yellows and greens, a candle burning on the unlit fireplace exuding the scent of lavender. "Why… this is your house."

Realising he's lying down Neal turns towards the ceiling and finds his friend suddenly inches from his face, looking not at all calm or tired, but as scared and terrified as Neal feels. Warmth swirls in his stomach, spreading throughout his body to consume his chest and eventually runs up his neck until he feels the heat burn hot in his cheeks. It's Peter who visibly chokes next, gripping Neal's knee tightly, enough to make him wince and release a squeak of distress.

"Is he okay?" A woman's whisper, her words warm and gentle fill the air.

Peter relaxes his fist and turns away, looking towards the stairs. "I think he could do with a warm drink."

The woman – _Elizabeth_ – Neal prompts himself, disappears - he can hear soft footfalls on the polished wooden floor as she walks away.

Elizabeth -  _El._  Peter's wife.  _What is she doing here?_

"You're at our house, remember." Peter turns back to him, shifting from his knees on the floor to sit next to him on the sofa, by his feet. "I brought you home, like you wanted."

Breathing still quick and anxious, Neal stares up at his friend, whispering "like I wanted?"

 _I just want to go home._ He sees himself, in his mind's eye, curled up on cold slab of an exam table, crying out his demands into arms wrapped tight around drawn up knees. Peter's at his side, rubbing circles on his back awkwardly, promising him anything he wanted if he'd just calm down.

Back in the Burkes warm living room Neal feels calloused fingers carding through his hair. His filthy, sweat soaked hair. "Stop." He jerks away. Sniffing frantically as snot and tears threaten to fall all at once.

Peter's unfazed and simply leans closer, wrapping his arms around Neal's back to help him sit up.

"Peter?" there's that squeak again, scared and uncertain. He's never uncertain, or at least he tries never to sound it.

"Shush," is all Peter tells him, not at all answering the unasked question, and continues to force Neal upright offering him a tissue.

Giving up the idea of a fight, because frankly he didn't have another one in him, Neal forces his tense muscles to relax and flows with the movement. Not stopping, he continues to fall forward, resting his chin over Peter's shoulder, uncaring whether the man intended to give him a hug or not, Neal's forcing the contact because it's better than facing the pity he knows he'll see in his eyes.

Listening to the clinking of mugs and hissing of a pan boiling over coming from the kitchen, Neal takes a minute to simply rest and organise his thoughts. Everything's messed up, nothing he recalls seems real somehow, even this moment feels surreal, like any minute the gentle touches, comforting warmth and homely smells will all disappear and be replaced by cold hands, impersonal faces and dark corridors. The only thing keeping him tethered to this reality, what Neal hopes is reality and not a dream, is the rapid thump, thump, thump of Peter's heart he can feel against his own chest.

"You're heart's beating really fast." He says simply, proud of how steady and clear his words are.

Peter takes a deep breath and blows it out, inadvertently tickling Neal's ear. "Well you did just scare the crap out of me."

Neal nods. He doesn't know how else to respond to that. In his mind though, he thinks,  _I scared the crap out of me too_.

…

Peter's first hint something wasn't right was when Neal screamed out his name. It wasn't in Neal's usual whiney tone that signified a Caffrey bored out of his brain or the other kind of whine more akin to a younger child crying wolf purely for attention purposes. The sound that travelled through his house was a piercing cry of distress certain to ignite insurmountable fear in those unlucky enough to hear it.

Used to not sleeping deeply, and having been unable to get more than half an hour straight sleep since turning in, Peter launched out of bed and raced down the hall.

"Neal?" He skidded to a halt in the open doorway of the guest room.

The sight that greeted him was not the tossing and turning kid he'd come to expect this night. Instead he was greeted with blankets strewn across the floor and an empty bed.

_Shit._

Hitting the doorframe hard enough to cause a recurring ache in his palm Peter bellows for El and races down the stairs. Certain he's going to find the front door wide open and if he's lucky hear the screech of tires pulling away Peter comes to a dead halt on the stairs upon finding Neal, bedded down on his sofa, fighting the cushions for all he's worth, throwing insults to his imaginary foes while still screaming for Peter to come to his rescue.

"Jesus," Peter whispers to him before getting his wits about him and running over, letting Neal know he's there.

His call appears to do the trick, Neal stops his struggles instantly and a tearful " _Peter?_ " fills the air.

Taking hold of both wrists to ensure as much control as possible, Peter settles down on the floor next to the sofa. Why, or better yet how he managed to sneak downstairs and bed down on the sofa without him hearing, is a question to be asked but perhaps not now. Now what Neal needs most in the world is to feel safe.

"I want Peter." Neal's quiet plea interrupts the assurances he's trying to give.

Confused at first, worried that the hospital missed something and Neal's memory issues weren't just drug related, Peter quickly understands the problem after looking down at him and finding his eyes still firmly shut.

"Neal." He drawls, putting his usual inflection of annoyance into the name he has to call out far too often for his liking. "You're dreaming, wake up!"

Neal's accusation of him sounding tired makes Peter laugh. It takes another exchange of words and soft, to the point instructions, to convince Neal to open his eyes. The confusion doesn't worry Peter much. Before releasing him, the doctor had warned about potential for confusion and an inability to remember some or all of the events prior to and following his rescue. The drugs found in his system most certainly distorting his sense of reality, place and time. What does upset Peter is the sob which takes over his boy's body. Witnessing that level of distress in Neal reduces him to a trembling near tears mess to match.

"Is he okay?" El asks from the stairs.

Peter flinches, his hand squeezing Neal's knee harder than intended. He's unsure how long she'd been standing there, how much she heard, but her supporting presence gives him the strength to get over his own distress, swallow down on the emotion chocking him and make a request for assistance.

"Why's Elizabeth here?" Neal whispers once she's safely in the kitchen.

Peter answers Neal's question as clearly as possible, again following the doctor's advice by giving him enough information to understand what was happening around him without over complicating things. Standing from his kneeled position at the side of the sofa, Peter ignores the ache in his calves and drops to sit by Neal's feet.

"I brought you home, like you wanted." He ends with, thinking nothing of it.

But then Neal stares up at him, lying prone, eyes as wide as sauces and full of unshed tears and repeats,  _like I wanted_? And just like that the flood gates open. Tears spill over in earnest, breathing rapid and shallow, Peter doesn't need a doctor to tell him Neal has just remembered  _something_  of his ordeal and he could pretty much guess which part.

The first time they'd headed to bed a mere five hours ago, which now felt like a life time El had nicely asked Neal if he needed something to help him sleep and a got a subdued nod in response, unfortunately he'd let his irritation and tiredness get the better of him and snapped, demanding a clearer answer, which resulted in sending the kid running. When Peter left on his heels, telling El it was going to be a long night, he'd had no idea how right he'd be.

Padding his way down his hallway, the floorboards cold against his bare feet Peter was set to break a record by apologising to Neal for a third time, only to discover his room empty. Curious as to where Neal could possibly have travelled so quickly, his search was short as he discovered the bathroom door locked.

"Neal," Peter knocked softly, part in acknowledgment of his own poor behaviour and part because he really didn't want El to know how bad he'd fucked up before having a chance to fix it. "Look, I'm sorry I snapped. Really, if there's anything we can do to help, just ask ok?"

Silence was his response for at least a minute, but just as Peter raised his hand to knock and try again Neal's unsteady voice filtered through the still closed door. "Yeah okay, I'll… let you know. I'm just going to have a shower and go to bed."

Peter doesn't comment that if that had been his intention, he should have done it before he changed into his nightwear. Instead he communicated his agreement with a noncommittal  _alright,_ and made his way back to El. Neither of them got anywhere near sleep until they heard the shower turn off and Neal's soft footfalls across the landing. It was only upon the sound of the guest bedroom door creaking shut that Peter dared to even close his eyes.

Looking down at Neal now, falling apart before his very eyes Peter wishes he'd stayed. Camped outside the bathroom door and forced Neal into telling him whatever it was he thought he needed to sleep. If he had, maybe they could have avoided all this.

Unable to apologise for decisions poorly made and everything he was put through at the hospital, Peter settles his in hand in Neal's hair and proceeds to do what he feels completely inadequate for. Provide basic comfort.

"Stop." Neal murmurs, coming down from his hysteria. He jerks away, sniffing frantically as snot and tears threaten to fall all at once.

Unfazed, Peter helps him to sit up, shushing Neal's minor protest at being manhandled and instead calmly offers him a tissue to clean himself up. He's past the point of tiredness, hasn't got the energy to be even slightly irritated. Instead a sense a calm acceptance envelops him. The same happens to Neal apparently, and Peter pushes down on his surprise when Neal doesn't settle for simply sitting up, when he continues to close the small space between forcing the kind of intimate hold he's probably always wanted, but never dared to ask.

There is an upside to all of this he realises suddenly. The warmth of the slender body in arms, the stuttered unsteady breathing and damp patch forming on his shoulder, all serve to remind Peter that Neal's here, he's alive.

"You're heart's beating really fast." The voice belonging to that alive body breaks the comfortable silence.

Peter takes a deep breath and blows it out steadily. "Well you did just scare the crap out of me." He says glibly, all the while thinking he may never  _not feel_  scared again.

…

"Sleeping?" El asks sometime later, more to confirm what she can see with her own eyes than any need to know.

Peter yawns, and nods, "but for how long?"

She has no answer for him, so busies herself by clearing the coffee table of the mugs of half-drunk chocolate milk. It's done the trick, that's all that matters.

"Hey," Peter makes a grab for his mug a second too late, "I was still drinking that."

"It's cold." She glares back at him, daring him to challenge her. He can't reach for it back because Neal has him pinned, feet languishing heavy over his lap, and any movement may cause him to wake again, something neither Burke wants to risk at the moment. "Fine. You want it?" She offers it him back.

Peter looks over the rim at the skin that's formed on top, then looks up at El. She smiles smugly and proceeds in her task of clearing up. It's practically morning, the sun is on the horizon signalling the dawning of a new day. She has meetings to attend and events to plan… having already taken a passing glance in the mirror before coming down stairs, today is going to take more than a dash of eyeshadow and splattering of mascara to get her looking anything close to normal.

"I'm sorry for all this, hon." Peter calls softly as if reading her mind. "If I'd have known things were going to be this bad, I've have stayed with him at June's."

"Don't be an idiot." She chides equally gentle. "You can't do this by yourself. And as good a friend as Mozzie can be, I think he'd struggle to deal with, you know,  _everything._ "

And by everything she of course meant the screaming and crying that had been waking them up ever since Neal first went to bed last night. As if on cue Neal starts to talk in his sleep, head lolling from side to side, hands balled into fists and fixed at his side as if pinned. Peter doesn't even blink, just rests his free hand over the young man's forehead, brushing back sweat soaked curly strands until he settles. His other hand remains where it's rested since Neal took up his current supine position on their couch, wrapped around the anklet-less ankle. A hold that seemed to do the trick and promote the much-needed sleep.

"Why don't you just put the anklet back on him?" The tiredness in her voice takes the sting out of her words, but the sentiment remains the same.

Peter looks up from the once again relaxed features over at her, his expression saying he was certainly thinking about it. "I will today. It just didn't feel right… after what they did to him."

Neal had been restrained, both physically and chemically. Probably for the entire time he was missing. Understandable that Peter wouldn't want to welcome him home by putting him in a restraint of a different kind. Her heart aches, of course Peter wouldn't do that. El smiles her apology, internally blaming her own lack of sleep for even questioning it and makes her way upstairs to get ready for her day. No matter what she has to face, she already knows Neal's day is going to be a hell of a lot worse.


	11. Chapter 11

When the blurry image of Peter Burke appears, floating in the foreground of his vision as if summoned into existence by sheer will alone, Neal feels justified in his acute paranoia. His instinct is to run, his mind screaming it in fact, but being barely able to keep his head up, by the time the idea enters there's already a warmth surrounding him, heavy on his shoulders, holding him in place.

"EMTs are here." Neal hears. Thinks,  _Jones._

He catches on to movement around him and tenses. The Peter apparition starts pushing him away, but real or not, he doesn't want him to let go and tells him so, or thinks he does-

Hands - strangers' hands - are suddenly on him, trying to  _take_  him away. Neal lashes out, clenched fists sailing towards his assailants, taking one out. Breathing heavy and quick there's no time to gloat. Someone shouts his name but it's too late. He throws himself off to the side, tries to scream a demand at them to leave him  _the hell alone!_ But his lips don't move. Tongue lolling in his mouth, refusing to form any understandable sound, Neal's left little recourse but to get as far away as he can.

Which, as it turns out, isn't very far. Back pressed up against the wall length window Peter easily catches him. Crouching in front of him, cool fingers reach out and caress his cheek.

Neal rears back on instinct.

"Peter." he tests, tone hard. Not yet willing to believe what his eyes are telling him.

"Neal, these guys just want to help you. Make sure you're alright." Peter tells him reasonably. "You're going to let them."

The threat in the terse, evenly spoken words is clear. This isn't about what he wants – it's never about what he wants. From the pain where finger nails suddenly cut through the thin cotton of his t-shirt sleeves, making crescent shapes in already tainted skin, Neal knows this is real. He's not an hallucination concocted by an over stimulated and traumatised mind. Peter is here, giving him orders and trying to control him like always.

"I want to go home." Neal hears himself demand, voice strong.

Those fingers digging into his arms slowly make their way to grip the back of his neck and coax him forward. He tries to resist, but Peter's familiar arms are already taking possession of his body and despite all the will in the world, he quickly melts into the contact, letting the slight side to side motion Peter's undertaken lull him towards sleep.

"He okay?"

Neal freezes at the unexpected voice. The rocking stops. Peter murmurs something in response. Tired eyes open a crack through curiosity alone and see, not the dull loft with the early morning view of Brooklyn, but a much more familiar vista, one normally seen from the 21st floor of the FBI building. Alarm travels his body like lightening, a sharp sizzle running through his veins and sparking in his brain.

Utterly mortified, Neal pulls away from the warm body nestling his. Heat instantly filling his cheeks as he turns wide eyes towards the outer office.

"Neal?"

Snapping his panicked gaze back around, Neal discovers Peter's no longer sitting in front of him. Instead he's standing at the end of the conference room table, hard gaze demanding an answer to a question Neal's sure was never asked. A quick assessment of himself reveals he's fully clothed, wearing his favourite blue suit. A blank notepad resting on the table before him. A warm hand squeezes his shoulder from behind. Startled Neal kicks away from the table, chair rolling back as he frantically seeks out the source.

"Wow, hey Caffrey, it's only me." Jones materialises at his side, hands held up in surrender.

"You okay?" Diana breaks from her bored lounging. "Maybe you should have a drink?"

She produces a tall glass of clear liquid, condensation run down the side, and slides it slowly across the table. The other agents, who he hadn't noticed in the room before, are all looking his way. Waiting with anticipation for him to accept. Stumbling Neal jumps to his feet and heads for the door, sparing no thought to where he's running, only listening to the voice in his head telling him togo… to  _run!_

A persistent voice calls after him, shouting his name, over and over and over, but he keeps moving. Bare feet pounding far more stairs than he remembers being in the White Collar office, the lights flicker above him, off and on, off and on again, creating a strobing effect.

Neal, forcing calm by taking deep even breaths, makes it within feet of the glass double doors before being plunged into darkness.

…

"Neal? Neal!" Peter snaps his fingers in front of Neal's face, knocks fisted knuckles once, twice, three times against the cluttered desktop to regain his attention. "Hey! You listening?"

Neal gasps as if waking from a deep sleep - despite the fact his eyes have been open the entire time - and reels back suddenly, near tipping off his chair. Surprised, Peter remains seated and watches in helpless confusion as Neal's frantic gaze takes in his office, eyes wide and fearful, like he's seeing it all for the first time.

"What?" He wheezes and fidgets, blinking against the bright midday sun streaming through the windows.

Peter leans in, blocking out most of the light and covers Neal's trembling hand with his own. "Hey," he whispers softly, "you okay? You drifted off for a second."

Neal's response is to shiver, violently, sucking in air through his teeth. "I'm fine." He puffs out, despair clear in his too damp blue eyes. Eyes that after a few more blinks raise to meet his, "Peter?"

"I'm here." Peter nods, keeping himself stationary, halfway between sitting and standing, afraid any movement will incite a reaction in the kid he really doesn't want to deal with right now.

"What were you saying?" Neal slowly slides his hand out from under his and hides it with it's fellow in his lap.

Peter sits back and frowns, watching silently as Neal desperately tries to put himself back together. He's torn between letting him do whatever he needs to get through this, while at the same time being acutely aware bottling feelings up and pretending everything's fine always comes back to bite them both on the ass.

"You were telling me about what you remember." He says cryptically after a short pause, choosing not to challenge Neal's coping mechanism right now.

 _Coward._ His inner voice yells at him. He ignores it.

"I …" Though he may have his breathing under control, Neal doesn't lose the wide-eyed look, the singular identifier is as far as he gets.

"You were telling me about waking up in the loft. Do you remember how you got there?" At Neal's quick head shake Peter continues, "what about who took you? Do you know how many of them there were?" Another shake, gaze averted. "Okay, so what's the last thing you  _do_  remember?"

He knows his words come out irritated, and regrets his choice the second Neal's gaze drops completely and finds a spot on the floor particularly interesting.

Sighing heavily, Peter clears his throat in apology. "How about we take a break?"

Neal surges to his feet before he finishes asking the question and heads for the door.

"Hey Caffrey," Jones catches him on his way out.

A clipped 'Hey' is all Peter hears in response as Neal, with no smile and no eye contact, storms down the stairs into the bullpen and doesn't stop until he reaches his desk by the doors.

"I take it things aren't going so well?" Jones addresses Peter, stepping fully into the room.

Peter harrumphs at that. "They could certainly be going better." And then side steps the unasked query into his own wellbeing seamlessly. "What's up?"

Jones pauses, gives him an assessing glance but smartly chooses not to comment. "We caught one of Benedict's men."

"Diana's trap worked?" Peter smiles wide, it's the first good news he's heard all morning.

"Yep. We leaked Caffrey's whereabouts at the hospital and Benedict sent his man just like we thought he would. Should have seen Diana take him down, that's one man that won't be running anywhere anytime soon I can tell you." Jones matches his knowing smile, like for like. "Ruiz took him to interrogation an hour ago… he's already agreed to flip on his boss for the extortion charges. They're getting a search warrant now, Carl Benedict should be in custody by the end of the day."

"What about the guys who took Neal?"

Jones steps further into the room, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the door is shut. "Our man in custody claims he had no part in Neal's kidnapping… and by all accounts neither did Benedict."

"I think the fact he showed up at the hospital suggests otherwise." Peter dismisses, recognising a desperate plea when he hears one.

Jones shifts uneasily. "He gave us a name, Gallagher, but apparently he's no longer a part of their operation."

"How convenient. And we're just accepting that?"

Jones looks at him seriously. "The deal Ruiz made in exchange for giving up Benedict includes no further questioning on Neal's kidnapping."

Peter stares at Jones. "I'm not resting until the bastard responsible is behind bars. I'll get a meeting with the judge before his arraignment, make sure any  _deal_  gives us what we need to take the bastards responsible down. I'll put in a call as soon as I'm done here."

Jones nods. "How's things going," he cocks his head to the side, "with the statement?"

Peter breathes out a long sigh, gaze contemplating the still blank notepad discarded on his desk. "Not good."

"And how were things last night?"

There's a pause like Peter doesn't quite know how to answer that. "Complicated," is the word he settles on, but Jones' responding frown prompts him to explain. "We didn't get a lot of sleep. Every time he closed his eyes… I don't know, nightmares I guess…"

"Well he has been through a pretty big trauma." Jones says, his words heavy but somehow keeping his tone light. "And … so have you."

Peter immediately refutes that, denying anything of the kind and suddenly becomes very interested in checking his email. "Neal will be fine, I'll make sure of it."

"I'm sure you will, but you need to be fine too and we both know you're not."

"We?"

"Diana spoke to Hughes. He said he didn't ask you to come in today." Jones takes a leaf out of his book and completely sidesteps the question.

"The man who had Neal is still out there." Peter points out, voice quivering at the very acknowledgment this is far from over.

"And we're handling that."

"Neal's statement will help."

"Yeah, it will. If it's accurate." Jones hardens his tone, looking Peter directly in the eye. "You know a coerced statement is always full of holes, plus it won't hold up if this gets to court."

"Really? That's what you think I'm doing?"

"Peter," Jones says his name and directs his attention to the young man right now sitting behind his desk, hands clasped tight in front of his face, staring absently across the office. "Just yesterday we rescued him from what the profilers call a sadistic serial killer; someone who spends his life planning how to torture and kill. And despite neither of you getting much sleep last night you've spent the better part of the morning pushing him to relive it. Can you honestly say you're doing what's best for either of you right now?"

….

Neal flees from Peter's office and travels quickly down the stairs, avoiding eye contact with the few agents milling around and drops behind his desk with a thump. Sitting staring at the file shelves opposite, legs jiggling up and down, heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, Neal presses clasped hands to his lips and fights to keep in the scream his body so desperately wants to release.

He doesn't know what's real and what's imagined anymore. Is the memory of Peter's arms around him, rocking him to sleep a memory or is it a fabricated desire? The feel of hands running over his bare skin, under his clothes and taking pleasure in his inability to move or fight back… the pain radiating from the back of his head, ache in his arms from being restrained – is any of  _that_  real? His exam by the nurse with the soft voice was most definitely real, even though it felt like a dream at the time. Then there's what happened this morning, when he woke up on the Burke's couch and not the guest bedroom where he's almost certain he fell to sleep after psyching himself up to go to bed alone and in the dark, like a big boy.

He remembers the way the early morning sun shone through the drapes, eyes feeling crusty and skin tight. Peter had been sat at the table and never said a word, just quietly drank his coffee, reading case files like it was any normal morning, all the while Elizabeth busily ran around him, grabbing her things together as if she was late for something…

A casually thrown ' _have a good day hon'_ and she's out the door, leaving Neal, still in his nightclothes, lying horizontal on the couch and Peter looking worn in a way he's never seen before, dressed in his suit and tie, looking seconds from heading out the door himself.

"Should I get dressed too?" Neal hears himself ask, words hesitant and shy, not at all like his usual style.

Peter flinches, honest to god jumps in his chair, coffee sloshing over the side of the mug.

"You're awake." He says dumbly, settling back down and looking at Neal like he's just materialised in his house. "How you feeling?"

Neal thinks that over. Tests out his movements, rolling his shoulders and wiggling his toes before sitting up.

"Okay." He decides. "My mind certainly feels… clearer." He frowns. "Did-" He cuts himself off, not sure if he wants to know the answer or not. "Did they give me something? At the hospital?"

Peter looks blankly back at him for a second, thoughts directed inward, but Neal waits patiently because he's certain nothing good can come from pushing for his answer.

"They said you might be confused. Glad you're feeling better." He smiles, it's a Neal smile though – as fake as they come.

Neal doesn't call him on it or try and correct the 'feeling better' conclusion. He merely returns Peter's fake smile with a fake one of his own and excuses himself to get dressed.

They had arrived in the office around nine, stood around drinking coffee for the first half hour and aside from the welcome back smiles he received all in all, despite the initial awkwardness of the morning, it had been shaping up to be like any normal day. That was until Peter got him in his office, shut the door, handed him a fresh notepad and started asking questions about what happened Sunday morning when his anklet went off line.

"Sunday?" Neal had asked, utterly perplexed.

Sitting alone at his desk Neal runs through the rest of the conversation with Peter in his head. Recalling in particular detail the moment Peter's faced dropped upon learning the last memory Neal had was showing up for a meeting with his supposed mark on Saturday morning. With his own internal clock screwed by who knows how many drugs, because despite Peter's lack of response each and every time he's asked Neal's unfortunately had enough experience to know when he's been doped, the concept of time has been lost to him. From what he'd managed to piece together so far, Peter found him early yesterday morning and he spent most of Monday in the hospital, which only really leaves part of Saturday and all of Sunday completely unaccounted for.

Neal rolls the thought around his mind. Technically it's only one day, rounding down.  _So not a big deal, right?_  He's had concussions that lasted longer. Spent three days hiding in the cargo hold of a freighter trying to cross the border from Geno to Corsica. Forgetting one day? It's nothing.

His jiggling legs pick up the pace, double time. It's not  _nothing,_ and he berates himself for the stupidity of even trying to con himself into thinking it was. He can't stop thinking about all the terrible things that may have happened to him in that 'one day', what his dreams say happened but he can't remember with any clarity. Peter isn't a typical alpha male, he may not be the most eloquent and can be tactless at times but he does listen when it matters and Neal knows first hand, he gives the best hugs. So, it's not so farfetched to think that maybe, maybe if he was inconsolable to the point of exhaustion, Peter did rock him to sleep. Hopefully wasn't in the conference room though...

Neal frowns at the thought, gaze purposefully not looking at the offending room, but then where it allegedly happened isn't what has him all worked up. Embarrassment is minor, and for some reason - one he's never examined too closely - Neal feels completely safe being vulnerable in front of Peter. What's stressing him out right now is the reason he'd be inconsolable. He wasn't someone prone to bouts of tears – drugged up states not withstanding – admittedly he can get emotional like anyone, especially when caught off guard, but as a general rule he can hold himself together quite well. Again, Peter would be the exception to that rule. He can hold himself together brilliantly until Peter's there and then all those feelings he fights to keep down well up to the surface and want out. It's like he can only be brave long enough to fool everyone that's he's okay, but he can never fool Peter and so the damn always breaks eventually and ends with him in receipt of one of those aforementioned best hugs. There's just something about Peter that's sets him off and now he's so attuned to it, it no longer takes prolonged exposure to break him.

 _Argh, this is all so confusing!_  Why couldn't he just have straight up amnesia?  _Why?_  That would have made everyone's life so much easier.

Then again…maybe this  _is_  all in his head. His minds way of coping by filling the gaps left by whatever drug was pumped into him in that house. His sudden fear of the dark notwithstanding, there's no evidence to suggest anything he's 'remembered' is real.

He likes that idea.

His legs slow their erratic jumping and the tension in his arms eases. Memories' or imagination. He can't do anything to change it now. Its past. What matters is he's alive, back at White Collar, safely under Peter's watchful gaze where no one can hurt him. Unless-

"Grab your jacket."

Peter's voice derails his internal thoughts, a good thing too he thinks, based on where his mind was taking him.

Switching gears in an instant, slipping into his usual cool persona with practiced ease, Neal channels the resilience he'd been building and smiles brightly up at him. "You taking me for lunch?"

"Sure." Peter nods briskly, returning the smile.

Neal's cheeks drop, forehead crinkling. Peter being overly cheerful and willingly taking him to lunch is a cause for alarm on a good day. And today certainly isn't that, not by a long shot. So far  _today_  had been pretty goddam awful, but Neal as always was willing to power through, knowing the sooner they got it done with the sooner it could be forgotten.

Looking for clues as to what has Peter forcing levity now, he notices that he's holding his briefcase. "Are we done for the day?"

Peter follows his gaze and stares at the leather case dangling from his hand, as if just now realising it's there. "Sure, why not?"

Something suspicious is going on, but if following Peter's lead means not having to answer any more questions about his missing hours, he'll go with it. Neal grabs his jacket as ordered and rises to stand next to him. He sees the sideways glance Peter gives first Hughes up in his office, and then Jones by his desk a few rows along, but doesn't comment. Instead he waits until Peter is safely on the other side of the double glass doors before staring back at them himself, hoping to see if he can gain any insight into what's going on. But in the mere seconds he has both have their gazes averted and unlike Peter, Neal never pushes for answers he isn't sure he really wants, so let's it go for now and joins Peter at elevators.

…

Once outside, walking the busy streets of downtown Manhattan, Neal makes several aborted attempts to break the tense silence which has fallen over them since leaving the building. He's increasingly getting the impression he's in trouble for something, but for once has no idea what he could have done in such a short space of time to piss Peter off. Regardless he starts running through all potential reason's he may have earned a major Peter Burke telling-off and so loses track of where they're walking until a familiar building pops up right in front of them.

"Ah… Peter?" Neal draws himself to a dead stop, right there in the middle of the busy court house steps.

No one pays him much attention. The occasional head turns, likely curious as to his sudden statue-like pose, but that's it. The only person to really notice is the man he'd been walking side by side with, the one he'd been trying his best to keep up with until the swift chill of dread swept up his spine, freezing him to the spot.

They'd left Federal Plaza and crossed the street circumventing the Starbucks which Neal always avoided like the plague. He assumed after they continued to walk up Lafayette that they'd hang a left onto Worth Street, where Tribeca coffee lived – Neal loved their coffee - but clearly Peter had just kept on walking.

"You alright?"

Neal stares at Peter like he's crazy.

"Why are we here?" He demands, not even trying to keep the accusation out of his tone.

By here he means the heart of the New York criminal justice system. Where he's been trialled and sentenced -twice! He'd returned to this same court and been put before a judge on two further occasions since working with Peter, both times he'd been innocent and both times had resulted in his reincarceration. "I can give you my statement, I'll try harder, I promise I-"

Neal has plenty more to say to justify continuing his semi-freedom, but just can't get the words out fast enough. His throat feels like a golf ball is lodge in it, every swallow painful enough to induce a wince each time he tries to utter so much as a syllable.

"Hey, Neal. Neal, stop!" Hands grab his upper arms and pull him back down the steps over to the nearest building, giving them a modicum of privacy. "Calm down, we're not going to the court for you."

"We're not?" He cries out, managing to convey disbelief and relief all at once.

Peter gives him a look of pity. "No." He turns his gaze away, but not before Neal sees the disappointment in his eyes. "You really think I'd send you back to prison for not remembering what happened to you?"

Logically, Neal thinks no. But his situation made far from sense to him and frankly he's finding it hard to trust anything right now.

"You?" Neal shakes his head, still hyperventilating slightly and seriously struggling to stop. "But Hughes might not have a choice. It's happened before Peter."

It's not a con, or shouldn't need to be but Neal can't break a habit of a life time and puts everything he's got into ensuring Peter gets how very likely the scenario he's concocted could be.

It works, Peter's ironclad grip on his arm relaxes, he goes so far as to smooth down the rumpled material. "That maybe. But that's not what's happening now, I promise." He finishes with a squeeze to the back of his neck. "You hear me?"

Neal nods, satisfied with that answer, pleased Peter doesn't try and convince him it wouldn't ever be a possibility. "So why are we going? To the court?" He nudges his chin at the looming doors, feeling more than a little foolish for such an extreme reaction.

Peter looks away again, only this time instead of disappointment, its recrimination for himself Neal sees in his gaze. "Doesn't matter. I had something I needed to do quickly but it can wait."

"You don't have to because of me." Neal starts to protest, feeling his heart speed up again at the thought Peter would change his plans because of him.

"Yes, I do." Peter is firm. He starts them walking, back the way they came. "Come on, that overpriced coffee place you like so much is around the corner, we'll grab something to go and head home."

"Home?" Neal allows himself to be dragged along the sidewalk.

"Hughes has given us the afternoon off."

That wasn't really what he was asking.

"What about my statement?" Neal decides not to question Peter's use of the word home further.

Peter slows at his side to look at him. "You remember anything new?"

Neal thinks on what he knows, tries to focus on what he's sure is memory not fantasy and comes up lacking. "Nothing about who took me. Just flashes." Voice turning shy he decides to be completely honest for once and let Peter know not everything that went on yesterday is lost to him. "I remember being at the hospital and … some stuff at your house, I think."

Peter looks away, uncomfortable. "Then don't worry about it. With any luck we'll get these guys to squeal on each other."

"We?"

Peter blinks. "Jones and Diana have point, they're working with Ruiz' team." He takes a deep breath. "Speaking of Ruiz and his team…"

Neal hears the change of tone and doesn't like it one bit. He looks up, plastering on his best innocent expression as they turn the corner.

"Bancroft called Hughes after you went missing." Peter leaves a pause, baiting him, but Neal doesn't bite. "He likes you, was worried and wanted an update. He also happened to mention you'd called him the other week."

"He did?"

"He did."

They come to a stop outside Tribeca Coffee. Neal remains silent, knowing Peter is trying to get him to fill in the gaps by pretending he already knows everything. Which knowing Peter he probably does.

His silence doesn't deter him however, if anything it makes Peter more focused and they slip into their usual roles like clockwork.

"Let's grab lunch, we can talk more when we get home."

 _Home._  There's that word again. But still Neal doesn't push. It's taking everything he has not to rise to the bait Peter's laying out for him as it is, his own curiosity and desperation to know bubbling under the surface, he could do without Peter's bubbling there too. Being in a public place certainly ensured basic social ground rules would be followed, so maybe now was the best time to push? Once home Peter would be leaving his FBI Agent persona at the door, turning on his pissed off Dad mode the second he crossed the threshold.

One look at Peter's superior grin kills any delusions of having control of this situation.

Pulling a smile out of somewhere, forcing as much lightness to his tone as he can Neal responds with a jaunty, "Sounds good" and walks through the coffee house door, the little bell signalling a new customer playing double duty today.

He's survived round one.


	12. Chapter 12

Round two proved to be a little more difficult. For both of them.

They'd made it home –  _Peter's home_  – a place that as a criminal informant he shouldn't ever have been allowed near, let alone inside. Yet following that first impromptu visit to share with Peter his discovery of the Dutchman's identity, Neal has not only been allowed back, but Peter has taken to commanding it on more than one occasion. Neal attributes his current situation to be one of those.

"You know," Peter opens the door, continuing their debate on the price of coffee from the car, "despite the outrageous cost, it does taste damn good."

He finishes said coffee and strolling through the house throws his empty cup into the recycling.

"Told ya." Neal copies his actions, punctuating his words with a milder version of his usual bright smile.

The house is quiet, so quiet in fact the sound of Satchmo padding his way to the backdoor echoes loudly through the family room. Neal moves to let the dog out, following him in his eagerness to access the backyard.

Standing alone on the patio, basking in the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun and relishing in the scent of lavender growing in the small garden. With the distance sounds of the city a low hum in the background Neal takes a moment to let all the stresses of the morning drift away. They'd been at work a sum total of five hours, give or take. Barely a dent compared what they usually put in, but today it felt like a major success to have made it this far without completely breaking down. Physically he's exhausted. Keeping his eyes open in the car had been a real challenge. Arms and legs feeling like heavy weights anchoring his body to the floor, Neal's pretty sure the second he sits on the Burkes couch he'll be asleep within moments. Which is the problem….

Neal remembers bit and pieces from his dreams last night. The all-consuming darkness crowding him, penning him in, being alone and without the protection he's so recently come to rely on as part of his everyday life. He remembers feeling afraid, but of what exactly eludes him now. Whether that's because his memories are fuzzy or just the magic of sleep, he doesn't know yet. What he does know, what he wishes he could forget is the many times he woke up in a state of distress, tears streaming down his face only to find Peter sitting beside him, looking utterly exhausted.

"Beer?"

Neal jumps, not only at the sudden unexpected company, but from the chill of the bottle as the cold glass slips into his hand.

Neal frowns as he raises the neck to his lips. "We really are done for the day."

"I would offer you something stronger, but I need you conscious if we're going to talk."

Any good feelings he's manage to find through the tranquillity of his surroundings are immediately sucked away. "I thought you said not to worry about what I couldn't remember!" He hates how whiney he sounds, but damnit Peter promised!

"I did, I did." He laughs.

"So, what is there to talk about, other than how long you expect to keep me as your prisoner - in the literal sense." He eyes the house, rankled by Peter's far to jolly response.

Peter's eyes narrow, but he takes the jibe on the chin. "My home isn't a prison thank you very much, don't let El hear you say it is. And you're staying with me until these guys are caught – or would you prefer protective custody at Rikers?" He rises an eyebrow in challenge.

Neal stares at him unblinking. "No," he concedes with a sigh, and in a forced light tone adds, "I'm good." There's a flash of something in Peter's eyes that signal he's surprised about that reaction, but right now Neal isn't bothered about examining it too hard. "So," he takes a swig of his beer. "What's there to talk about?"

"How about you calling Bancroft and requesting to help on Ruiz' case?"

Neal blanches. Though he'd known this was coming he's kind of surprised Peter has chosen to discuss it outside the office, also what's more surprising is how not mad he sounds. Naturally Neal assumes it's a trap.

"That what Bancroft told you?"

"It's what Hughes told me." Peter averts his eyes, lifting his arm to take a drink of his own beer. "Luckily for you he told me right after you left to go undercover so I didn't get the chance to rip you a new one."

Neal can't help but wince at the disgruntled tone. "Are you mad?"

"You have to ask?" Peter glares at him.

"Kind of." He blinks innocently back.

Peter rolls his eyes in return. "What do you think?"

"I think you're mad." Neal quickly turns away. Focuses on emptying his bottle.

"Good guess." Peter nods, seemingly pleased. "But I am distinctly calmer now than I was." A hand cups his elbow, turns him to face Peter. "Just tell me Neal, why would you do it? Hughes and I bent over backwards to ensure you never had to take on a dangerous assignment with another team again."

Looking over at the sun to mask the wetness welling up in his eyes, Neal fights with himself over telling the real truth or just a version of it. For once, whether it's the fact he feels like he's not slept properly in days or just the whole situation where he's grateful to even be in Peter's house again, the truth actually wins outs.

"That's kind of why, actually."

** … **

** 2 weeks earlier – before Neal went undercover **

"Agent's Underling and Steward, right?" Neal flashes a wide smile to the two stereotypically unamused federal employees standing on his door step.

"It's Underhill," The first, and tallest of the pair barges his way in, followed swiftly by his cohort. "but I know you knew that,  _Caffrey_."

"My mistake," Neal mutters under his breath, facing the empty hallway for a few extra seconds to compose himself before shutting the door and spinning around. "Would you like a drink?"

He slips between them heading for his wine rack, but a hand on his arm stops him in his tracks.

"Not so fast convict." Steward speaks this time.

Neal eyes him warily, he's used to insults from Diana, in a playful banter-ish sort of way, but neither agent in his presence has given him a second glance since he started working for the FBI. He only knows who they are because of the godawful mandatory interdepartmental training days Peter forces him to attend, which he's pretty sure is just his way of making sure Neal has to suffer too.

"It's just a drink." Neal looks from Agent Steward to the hand still clasped around his forearm. "Unless you're here on official business?"

"Not official." Underhill prowls his apartment, stepping towards the balcony doors but never crossing the threshold. "Just a friendly visit."

"Friendly." He repeats. "Right."

"Look, Neal. Can I call you Neal?"

Neal frowns. He's used to handling bullies, guys or girls that think they are stronger, smarter or superior to him in someway that give them the right to push him around. He always tries to respond with a carefree attitude, one that both confounds his enemy and leaves them without recourse to follow through with whatever threat they may lobby. However, what he's not accustomed to is having that tactic used on him.

"Sure," Neal slips the hold that's since loosened and positions himself with his back to the door.

"Agent Ruiz is our boss, we work for him, you understand?"

"I think I get the concept of hierarchy in the workplace, thank you."

"We're working on a big case, one that could make all our careers."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"You,  _Neal_ , are key to helping us bust a high-profile extortion ring."

"Hey you're talking to the wrong guy. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not in charge at the FBI." He lifts his pant leg to remind them.

"Don't get sweet with me kid." Underhill chuckles, showing his advanced years through the numerous lines marring his forehead. "I realise you may not think you have a say, but you have more power than you think. Burke has a soft spot for you. And as much as I may not have made the same choices myself, I get it."

Neal shifts uncomfortably at the mention of Peter. His own attachment issues aside, that soft spot is what makes Neal feel safe, not to mention the numerous other emotions he'd rather not examine too closely. He hates it when Mozzie tries to convince him to use Peter's feelings for him in a con. But Moz is Moz. Neal tries very hard not to take him too seriously. The same coming from these stooges – Peter's colleagues by all accounts - actually makes him angry on Peter's behalf.

"What we're trying to say," Steward butts in, clearly seeing his partner getting off topic and sentimental. "This case tanks without your help. Burke has already blocked our request to have you go undercover, Hughes is supporting his decision."

"So, what do you want  _me_  to do?" Neal stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"You," Underhill smiles at him again, almost grandfatherly, "you are Neal Caffrey. You can get your way when you want it. How else have you gotten such a sweet deal and a whole FBI Department wrapped around your finger?"

"Sure would hate for that sweet deal to end," a put upon sigh passes Stewards lips. "All because some have lost sight of what you're supposed to be doing for us. May end up with a less than easy to appease handler next time, or worse."

Playing to his vanity, the good cop- bad cop routine, he's well aware he's being conned. They hope to get him to do what they are technically not asking. Neal doesn't like that his relationship with Peter is being used as a bargaining chip. Or that the hard-working Agents of white collar may also come under fire for supporting Peter in protecting him. Despite what it may look like from the outside, all Neal's tried to do since joining the FBI is get along with everyone. He likes to be liked. Limiting the number of people who want to hurt you is a strategic move. Making friends by making yourself indispensable to them is one of the first things you learn living on the streets.

Both Agents start to make their way towards him and Neal quickly contemplates how fast he'd have to move to get out the door and down the stairs unscathed. Very aware both are probably carrying guns and wouldn't think twice about shooting a 'fleeing felon'.

Before he can make his mind up whether to run or not a file folder hits him in the chest.

"Read it." Underhill tells him straight. "If you choose to help, I know you'll know how to get it done."

And with that very cryptic parting message, they let themselves out.

…

It's two days and one innocuous and not at all leading call to Agent Bancroft later when Neal finds himself being called into Hughes office. Alone.

"Caffrey, sit."

Neal closes the door quickly and does as he's told, feeling the usual uneasiness surface and holding it in. Though Reese comes across as a fair man, Neal always feels likes he's been caught swapping notes in class and sent to the principal's office when in his presence.

"Something wrong, Sir?" Neal asks politely after a prolonged silence envelope's the room, resulting in Neal squirming under the intense stare being aimed his way.

"Violent crimes have requested your skills on one of their undercover operations." He doesn't even wait to see Neal's reaction, which tells Neal he either doesn't care, or is already well aware of his role in this. "You're to be temporary on loan to Agent Ruiz for such a period of time that it takes to resolve the case. Peter will remain your primary handler, but he will not be involved in the operation or have a say in how you are used. Understood?"

Neal waits a beat, makes the expected complaints comparing himself to a well-used a library book and expresses concern that Peter isn't present for this meeting. Anything less would have been suspicious. Hughes looks pretty uninterested through it all and Neal wonders if he should really have bothered. A question that's answered seconds later.

"Caffrey I have children," Reese sighs, bored and more than a little irritated. "Hell, I have grandchildren your age, one with a great grandchild on the way."

Neal blinks, completely thrown by where he's going with this.

"There isn't much that can get past me, and trust me, Peter is just as clued in with  _you_." He pauses, leans over the desk and looks him dead in the eye. "Be careful on this. For both our sakes."

Suddenly finding himself at a loss for words Neal does the only thing he feels capable of in this situation. He nods and mentally promises to make this up to Peter as soon as he's back.

…

Standing on the patio, still basking in the warm sunshine Neal brings his story to a close with, "I had no choice."

"Of course you had a choice, you could have come to me!" Peter yells.

The sudden sharpness of his tone makes Neal flinch, a movement that isn't missed by the great Agent Burke. Peter doesn't say anything, just holds both hands up in surrender, then walks away heading for the back door of the house.

Voice back to a regular volume and words calm he says, "When are you going to learn that I care about you and I want to help you?"

A look of resignation crosses Neal's face. "I know you care." He whispers, attention on kicking the dirt beneath his feet.

"You just struggle with dependence." Peter answers his own question. "I get it."

"Do you?" Neal shifts his gaze, eyeing him warily.

"I like to think I do," he reaches out and squeezes Neal's arm, "to an extent. Maybe you could talk to me about it sometime?"

Neal looks at the hand still holding him and back towards the sun gradually getting lower in the sky. "I think I'm done with talking today."

There's a lengthy beat of silence, where Neal isn't sure he's said the right thing. Then the hand lets him go and a smile appears on Peter's face.

"Oh good, means I might actually get my reports done." He points inside, an unspoken order to follow. "Won't have you chirping in my ear about who knows what all afternoon."

That gets a laugh out of him, as Peter no doubt intended. The normalcy of it is so comforting Neal feel's himself relax once again. It must have shown on his face because his keeper disappears into the kitchen, from where he can hear the fridge door opening and the distinct sound of glass bottles clanking together. Putting two fingers in his mouth Neal lets out a loud whistle and just as enthusiastically follows Satchmo's galloping paws into the house.


	13. Chapter 13

To reward Neal for his rare show of honesty, Peter allowed them both a reprieve and spent the reminder of the afternoon not getting his own paperwork done, but going through cold case files. It may seem petty, but giving Neal a chance to show off and prove he's smarter than the average FBI Agent is always a sure-fire way to lighten his mood.

"This one is a classic case of the embarrassing cheque." Neal grinned manically at him from across the table.

"Cheque?" Peter raised an eyebrow, looking up from his own open case file. "Do people still write cheques?"

"They're legally binding." Neal jumped up and headed to the fridge, clearly feeling he was deserving of a reward. "And it's a really easy con to pull because technically everyone is offered their money back."

The rest of the explanation was muffled behind the open fridge door and drowned out by the clanking of bottles, but Peter got the gist.

"So, you're telling me our suspects mysterious 5k came from kinky rich guys who were too embarrassed to cash a refund cheque from Wangs & Whips?"

Neal  _whipped_  his head up from behind the still open fridge, "something you want to share Peter?"

The little shit was laughing, that sly chuckle signalling amusement at his expense.

And it was a wonderful sight.

Hours later, when El came home to the two of them more than a little tipsy, she declared an end to the work day and insisted on takeout. They swapped stories about their day, Peter glossing over much of what happened at the office in exchange for picking out Neal's most ingenious cold case solves. The night came and went without any of the excitement like the night before it, and Neal settled surprisingly well into the routine of going to work with him in the morning, assisting the junior Agents with chasing paper trails and coming straight back home again. No brunches, fancy lunches or clandestine rendezvous with any criminal of his friends.

Jones and Diana still have point on the Benedict case, Peter taking a step back as per Hughes' order. But that aside things seem to be getting back to something approaching normal. Today marks his third day of alternating between helping them and keeping Neal in his sights at all times. Tomorrow's Saturday and though he has no plans, he's certain he'll need some because Neal's still living with them, and a bored Neal is not something he ever enjoys dealing with.

Unfortunately, despite the easier groove they've fallen into, his mind is too preoccupied to look up what museums are going to pose the lowest risk for trouble because Neal's reaction to getting within mere feet of the court house is still bothering him. They've walked passed the court house building many times before, hell they've had to enter it on multiple occasions and not once has the kid lost it like he did the other day. Peter doesn't feel bad for not giving the trip a second thought, what's occupying his thoughts still is after staying with him in the hospital and comforting him through his nightmares, how could Neal think he'd be so callous as to throw him in jail just because he couldn't give a useable statement?

"Not everything is about you, you realise?" El nudges him out of the way, putting the leftovers in the fridge.

Peter blinks, checks his watch,  _is that the time_? He's been ruminating on Neal's strange reaction all the way through dinner apparently.

"I know that." He grouses, shifting to the side slightly while he takes another chug of his beer. "But I really thought we'd built up enough of a foundation for him to trust I wouldn't hurt him that way."

He keeps his tone low, trying not to wake the young man who has dropped off on the couch.

"He does trust you." El helps herself to her own beer now the clean-up has been done to her satisfaction, not like her husband who limited his role to loading the dishwasher. "I don't think he'd feel safe enough to fall asleep on anyone else's couch."

"True," he concedes, because what may seem so simple, for someone always on their guard like Neal, being vulnerable in front of others is a big step. "But then why?"

"Oh Hun," she links her arms around his waist. "Everyone deals with stress in different ways. Neal's is to be defensive and think in terms of the worst-case scenario."

Peter looks down at her. Taking in the kitchen, the several cake and biscuit tins full of freshly baked goods. He knows ever since he told her until they arrested the bastards responsible he would be bringing Neal home for safe keeping, she'd been keeping herself busy. Baking is not only something she enjoys, it's how she manages the day to day stress of being married to an F.B.I agent, and given their trip to the morgue the other day, he's sure this case has given her plenty to stress about.

"You're still worried." He realises, kicking his brain for not cluing him in earlier.

El relaxes a little in his grip, not unlike the way Neal does when Peter pulls down the walls he deliberately surrounds himself with. "Of course, I'm still worried." She sighs, resting against him. "The bad guys are still out there and you think they'll be coming after Neal, that's why you're so insistent he can't go home. I'm scared Peter, for him and for you."

"I'm fine." He hugs her tight. "And Neal will be fine too. I'll protect him."

"I know you will." She pulls away, recomposed, "And so does he, in his heart. But sometimes the mind can play tricks on us, especially on someone like Neal. I don't think he's ever really had anyone to look out for him, has he?"

Peter mules that over. "No, I mean what I know about him from our files and what  _I_   _know_  about him doesn't fit. His whole life is an illusion, but no one has that many personal barriers up without experiencing some kind of trauma early on."

"I wonder where his parents are." She says absently, turning to rinse the remaining dinner pans and leaving them to drain on the side.

"Ah, now that's an easy question to answer." He takes the opportunity to comfort her like she just did for him.

"Peter," she laughs as his arms slip around her.

"What? You're fretting about the wellbeing of my C.I. What other reason would you have?"

"Well he is very handsome." She giggles, letting Peter spin her around and give her a kiss.

"Mom, Dad, can you keep the noise down, some of us need our beauty sleep." Neal interrupts them, heading for the fridge and helping himself to juice. "And don't you have a room for that."

"I can send you to your room if you like." Peter warns, keeping up the banter.

El hits him on the arm and frees herself, reaching for the juice carton and snagging it out of Neal's jittering hands. "Glass." She points at the cupboard above his head. She knows Neal isn't the type to drink from the carton even in his own place, but she can't help but view him as unpredictable at the moment. "We didn't mean to wake you, but maybe you should head up-stairs."

"I'm okay." Neal doesn't meet her eye.

Peter watches from the side lines as El takes over the Neal handling. He'd suspected Neal was listening, which is why he'd made the jibe about them playing the role of his parents. The analogy fit too well at the moment to miss the opportunity.

At work Neal has been the strong one, in control, doing his job – and predictably complaining about not being allowed out of the building without an escort - like nothing ever happened! Jones, Diana and even Hughes have all commented on how glad they are everything's getting back to normal. Conversely, Peter has been a nervous wreck at work. Freaking out whenever Neal's out of sight for more than a minute, even though he's aware he's still in the building thanks to the recently replaced anklet. He's avoiding taking cases that might have them out in the field and any suggestion that anyone other than him takes Neal into the field results in their heads being bitten off. It isn't like him, and Peter doesn't like it, but the anxiety he feels from just thinking of Neal being exposure to god knows what danger – no, he's not ready.

Now, at home it's a complete role reversal. Here Peter's within his element, he can control the environment, who comes and who goes. Neal's not even mentioned wanting to go back to June's, not having his own personal space doesn't seem to really bother him. Like clockwork they get up and go to work on time in the morning and at the end of each day he's obediently trailed Peter back to the car, falling asleep within seconds of him starting the engine. Peter only waking him up once they reach Brooklyn and park outside the house. He'll eat dinner with him and El, then immediately fall asleep on the couch. Not one complaint passing his lips. It's like putting up the front of being fine at work is draining all of his energy.

When it's time to head to bed that's when the fun starts. He'll begin by saying he's not tired, that he's fine staying up watching TV. But Peter knows Neal holds very little interest in who's won American Idol or what Kim Kardashian is getting up to this week, so he pushes for something closer to the truth. This results in some pouting, maybe a whine, escalating to practiced use of that Caffrey smile on El, but she's almost as wise to his ways as Peter these days and in the end Peter wins. Continuing his submissive trend Neal usually climbs the stairs with heavy shoulders and doesn't utter another word of protest.

By that behaviour alone Peter is certain all is not as it seems – is it ever with Neal? - and so therefore feels completely justified in his anxiety at work. They still haven't caught the main guy responsible for the kidnapping, so until then Peter doesn't care what Neal or anyone else thinks about his methods.

"What do you think hon?"

Peter looks up, realising he's being spoken to. "Huh?"

"Neal doesn't think he can sleep yet, I thought you two could go walk Satch?" She glares, telling Peter that's exactly what he's going to do whether he wants to or not. "Some fresh air will do you both some good."

Peter turns his gaze to Neal who's staring at the floor. "Yeah, sure." He pushes off the side and quietly walking forward takes Neal by the elbow. "Let's go kid."

…

Walking the streets of Brooklyn, in a very domesticated scene with Neal holding Satchmo's leash, neither speak for the first block. It's another warm evening, the sun is only just setting and there's a relaxed atmosphere gripping the streets. People making the most of the spate good weather before the traditional summer storms roll in.

"I'm fine you know." Neal breaks the silence first.

"I know." Peter responds airily.

He's felt Neal twitching at his side since leaving the house and now can sense his gaze, flicking between him and the sidewalk when he thinks he's not looking.

"Then why can't I work in the field?"

"Neal we've been over this." Peter was really hoping to not have to discuss it again.

"No, you've told me you're in charge and I don't get a say. But we've not talked about why."

"We don't need to."

"Yes, we do."

"Okay, then let's also talk about why you've not once asked to go home." It's out of his mouth before he can think twice. Yes, it's a question he wants an answer to, but he also knows that answer will come from working through Neal's mind-set and analysing his behaviour, not the direct approach. "Neal? I'm sorry. I didn't mean that how it sounded."

Neal had stopped dead a few steps behind him, looking completely thrown.

"How did you mean it?" He looks shy and upset and goddamnit not at all angry.

Peter points to a park bench across the street. "Can we?"

They sit.

"I know you. I know you value your own space and though I know you secretly love it that I let you invade  _my space_  on a daily basis, that isn't what this is about. I want you staying with us right now. I need you staying with us. But I guess what's got me most worried is that you really don't seem to mind."

"You're worried because I'm actually doing as I'm told without argument for once?"

Peter thinks on that for a second. Neal's very logical statement is making him sound nuts. But he knows he's not. "Yes." He tells him straight. "Because that's how I know you're really not okay and I hate seeing you… not okay."

Neal looks away, fidgets and wrings his hands. Nodding he says, "I'm not okay." A beat of silence, "I keep having these dreams… nightmares really. I think they're memories but … I don't know what's real anymore."

"Is that why you've not been sleeping?"

"Oh, I sleep." Neal smiles, blushing. "Otherwise I think I would be an emotional train wreck by now." He takes a breath and catches his eye as if weighing up how Peter will take what he's going to say next. "If I'm with you, or even El, I can close my eyes and be mostly fine. But when I'm alone … I can't Peter. I just can't face being alone in the dark. I sit awake all night waiting for the sun to rise, hoping that the next day will be different."

Peter remains silent for nearly a full minute, truly unsure what to say that could make this better. But he quickly realises there's nothing he can say. Even in his emotionally weakened state Neal holds all the cards.

"I'm going to protect you. No matter what you are not alone in any of this. You hear me?"

His agreement is automatic if the head bobbing is any indication. "I want to go back to June's, I do. It's my home. But then your house feels like home to me too." Neal quickly releases a nervous chuckle and looks away, clearly regretting that confession. "I know that sounds stupid."

"It's not stupid. Crazy, but not stupid." Neal gives him a look that prompts him to explain. "When you first turned up here with the name of the Dutchman I was convinced this couldn't continue. You had no understanding of boundaries and I knew no matter how many rules I set you'd do your best to break every single one."

"But you did agree to the deal?" Neal frowns at him.

"I did." Peter holds back most of his smile, no matter the situation he loves it when he can confuse the young man who prides himself on being one step ahead of everyone else.

"So, what changed?"

Tough question, Peter's really not sure it was one thing or the slow drip, drip, drip that was Neal Caffrey.

"I guess I felt the turn around was worth the minor inconvenience." He laughs at Neal's eye roll. "And," he presses, hand on Neal's cheek preventing him from looking away, "I also felt more than a little protective of you. I know you're not as confident as you make out and I figured if four years inside hadn't taught you how to behave like a law-abiding adult, another four was probably going to do more harm than good. You deserved punishment for what you did Neal, but it was never my intention to break you. You have a good heart and smart mind. I want to help you use it in a way that doesn't end with you behind bars for life."

Neal falls quickly to the side, head precariously balancing on Peter's shoulder. "Mozzie thinks I've got Stockholm Syndrome."

 _He would_. "What do you think?"

"I sometimes wonder why you didn't just hang up on me all those times I'd call you at home in the middle of the night." He says with an exhausted sigh.

"Well that's easy." Neal rolls his gaze up without moving, expression challenging – no,  _asking_  – he really doesn't know. "You were just a kid, in over your head. I figured you needed someone to talk to."

Peter recalls all the lecturing he did even back then, trying to convince a much younger Neal Caffrey to hand himself in and end the game before he or someone got seriously hurt, while he still had time to make his life count for something good.

As if hearing the path of his inner voice Neal's actual voice echoes the sentiment.

"Sometimes I wish I'd listened."

"Would have made things easier on me – much lower blood pressure." Peter jibes, pleased as hell at the smile returning to Neal's face. "Ah no, no being pleased. You put me through hell worrying about you then and you still do it now. The only time I wasn't worried was when you were in jail – there at least I knew you were safe."

"You do realise Jail is not a safe place, right?"

"You were looked after." He drawls.

Neal eyes him suspiciously. "How would you know that?"

Peter's turn to blush. "I may have made a few calls."

He doesn't get to say anything else, Neal arms wrap around his neck cutting off most of his air supply.

…

"Good walk?" El asks as soon as Peter enters their bedroom.

"Enlightening." He strolls over to sit on top of the covers. "We may need to make some changes to how we manage our nights for a while."

Her face tells him to explain and so he does. Bottomlining it for her.

"Neal needs to start sleeping at night, when he's supposed to, not catching a few hours here and there during our commute or after dinner." If having someone with him makes Neal feel safe enough to let that happen then that's what he intends to do.

"It's not much of a long-term plan."

"No," he muses. "More of an interim, until I can think of something better or Neal's no longer afraid of the dark plan."

El accepts that he's already decided on this course of action. Her understanding nature is what makes them work. If the shoe were on the other foot, he doubts he'd be anywhere near as accommodating. From there they slip into silence as Peter exchange's his jeans and t-shirt for night clothes and prepares to camp out in the guest room. The fact he's even considering this shows just how far down the rabbit hole he's fell.

Being a handler is all about reining in the asset and ensuring they abide by the C.I agreement. Having any social relationship with a criminal informant is against the rules, which is partly why some see fit to circumvent him and try to handle Neal the traditional way. Peter already knew about Agents Underhill and Steward before Neal spilled the beans. Both came to see him the second they got wind of his disappearance. They aren't bad guys, they did what they thought was necessary for the job at the time, a job they felt  _he_ wasn't doing. Unfortunately, what they deemed "necessary", Peter calls an abuse of power and fully intends to file an official complaint with OPR to ensure nothing of the like happens again – to any C.I, not just Neal.

It feels like he's always known Neal and this thing where Neal practicality lives in his house and spends time with his wife was inevitable. Inevitable because you can't just  _know_ Neal. You either love him or hate him. The kid may be a renowned con-artist, but he can be incredibly naïve and insecure at times. Often wearing his heart on his sleeve, leaving himself open to be taken advantage of by the likes of Kate, or in this case Agents who sort to exploit any weakness to get their way. Neal is always so desperate to be liked, he's loyal and will do just about anything to protect those he cares about. It hurts to watch him get used for such a wonderful trait again and again and again. That's why Peter puts the time and effort in for Neal when he wouldn't for any other criminal he's caught.

Whatever may come their way in the future, Peter's prepared to get through it together and have them come out the other side without losing that which is most important. Each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm posting part 2 chapter by chapter at fanfiction.net under the same name. When part 2 is finished I'll post here.


End file.
